


Same Time (ish), Next Year

by bringewritepurge



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Romance, F/M, Post-Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:37:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22927561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bringewritepurge/pseuds/bringewritepurge
Summary: I’m holding a balled-up cloth napkin to sop up the blood spurting from my nose, and he’s holding a bag of frozen peas under his right eye. Yes, that’s right. I have a busted nose and he has a black eye. If the shock of seeing each other hadn’t been enough to throw us, the coincidence of these injuries has done the trick.
Relationships: Fleabag/Priest (Fleabag)
Comments: 216
Kudos: 184





	1. Paths

It has been 3-and-a-half years since whatever happened between us happened. I’d like to be able to say I’ve stopped wondering if or when I’ll ever run into him, but I can’t. I still think about it sometimes. Not as much as in the beginning, when I willed for it to happen, did things in the hope of making it so. Not stalking. More like making it easier for a coincidence to happen, like getting off the tube at his stop and walking instead of transferring trains, or going out of my way to pass the divinity shop I know he frequents. 

I’m done opening invitations to weddings and christenings -- a lot of those these days, I guess I’m of the age – and hoping against hope that it’ll say the event is being held at his church, allowing me to break the ban. I didn’t even try to plant the idea in Claire’s head when the twins arrived. Good thing since she’d have seen right through me. Also because things have been okay between us for a while now. Using her new-born babies to serve my own personal interests might have set us back.

I’m actually surprised it has never happened. I run into people I don’t want to see all the time, you’d think just once I’d run into the person I’d like to see most. Don’t misunderstand: I’m not pining anymore. I’ve moved on. It’s just this thing I assume will eventually happen, but I don’t know how, or when, and it looms. It is going to happen. It can’t be we’re going to go our entire lives without crossing paths again, at least once. Unless God really is keeping us apart. Considering who we’re talking about, I guess I shouldn’t rule that option out.

I know he’s still in London. I know he’s still a priest. And that he’s still at the same parish. How do I know all this? Because, get this: he’s famous now. Okay, not famous famous. More like famous-ish. It’s because of those restaurant reviews. Apparently one of his parishioners is an editor at a publishing house that does travel guides, and he did one for London about restaurants with a religious bent. I know that doesn’t exactly scream massive hit. But I guess he hit upon an untapped market, because he’s signed up to do more. I know all this from Instagram. He’s got a respectable number of followers, though I’m not one of them. I do lurk from time to time. It’s pretty dorky. Think hot cross buns and shepherd’s pie word play. Once, when the tube jolted, my finger slipped and, by mistake, I liked his Pancake Day post. It was a picture of him at a church bake-sale. He’s wearing a striped pinny, his collar sticking out at the top. I did really really like it. I was mortified to think he knew I was checking him out, but I don’t know if he ever noticed. Probably it’s not even him but some junior assistant at the publishing house running his account. What if it’s Pam?

Part of me wishes I’d gotten in touch with him after his book came out, sent a congratulatory note. It would have been the polite thing to do, and an excuse to reconnect in a light-hearted way. But I agonised about it too long, and then too much time passed. And I’m not sure he’d have seen it as polite. 

The other part of me is glad I’ve never reached out. Why should I be the one to put myself out there? I’m busy too. Hillary’s is thriving – at least according to the manager I hired to run it. My last boyfriend, we were actually living together for a while; we met during a course on restaurant management. He’s a chef, and we started doing these pop-up café things around London. Now we have a pub, and that’s where I spend all my time. Our business relationship is super solid. Our romantic relationship crumbled. Last month, he moved out. You’d think that would make things awkward, but we’re so busy, we’ve just kind of gotten on with it. It’s possible I’m a grown-up now.

Our pub is lovely. Cosy, but airy, with simple but excellent food. I guess technically it’s a gastropub, but that sounds dated and I don’t like lingo. It has a backroom that’s private; one might even call it church-like with high ceilings, and funny triangle windows; and it’s become an it-place to throw parties. There’s a wedding there tonight, and I’m actually attending – as a guest. My friend from primary school Tamsin is marrying her partner Niamh. Tamsin’s a TV editor, and Niamh is a presenter on a kids’ show. You know the one. With the rude dog puppet. 

You’ve probably gathered from the spelling of her name that Niamh is of Irish descent, which means you have figured out where this is heading. 

\---

10 minutes before the wedding guests are set to arrive, the front of the house manager calls in sick. My ex-boyfriend/current business partner is at a dinner meeting with the veg suppliers, so he’s unavailable. I’ve called a temp, who says he’ll be here as soon as possible, but he lives a half hour away. So, I’m doing double duty as wedding guest and restaurant host, basically running back and forth in a pair of Claire’s hand-me-down heels. I’m wearing them because they’re fucking works of art, which I guess they ought to be—they cost as much, but they’re also a size too small, and killing me. I seat a party with reservations for 6, then go to the backroom to mingle, return to seat a table of 2, then go back to mingle some more. At some point, without thinking, I throw back a glass of Champagne, and then another. I haven’t had a chance to eat since I’m not sure when, and they go straight to my head. It’s not terrible, but I’m a little loopy.

The piano hits the first notes of the wedding march, and the temp still hasn’t shown. I don’t want to miss anything, but I need to keep an eye on the pub, so I stand on tiptoe before the door to the backroom. It has a tiny window through which I can at least see some of the ceremony. Since the dining room is pretty calm – mostly quiet first dates, and a couple of sedate old marrieds –- I decide it’ll be safe to prop the door open a bit, so I can hear. Niamh’s 7- year-old cousin reads a poem, and something about that tiny voice saying those big words in that Irish singsong gets to me, and I choke up. The champagne probably isn’t helping. 

I haven’t heard anyone approach from behind, so when I feel a finger tap the back of my shoulder, I startle and jump, forgetting I’m wearing Claire’s heels. I spin around, lurching forward on bendy ankles. Desperate to steady myself, I grab for what’s in front of me. I get a decent grip on a pair of forearms I assume belong to the temp, then look up. “Jesus!” I scream. “Fuck!” he shouts, and all heads turn – wedding guests, pub patrons – as the floor slips out from under me. I career forward without letting go, taking him down with me. There’s a long horrendous silence, gasps. “Ouch,” whoever’s taken over the mic at the wedding snarks. It’s the fucking rude dog puppet.

\----

We are slumped on the floor in the pub’s kitchen. My back is against the meat fridge, his is against the desserts one. I’m holding a balled-up cloth napkin to sop up the blood spurting from my nose, and he’s holding a bag of frozen peas under his right eye. Yes, that’s right. I have a busted nose and he has a black eye. If the shock of seeing each other hadn’t been enough to throw us, the coincidence of these injuries has done the trick. We are dazed and reeling, and have basically been rendered speechless. Aside from the requisite flurry of apologies and a hefty handful of “What the fucks?” we haven’t exchanged a word. 

He won’t even make eye contact. I’m staring straight at him, practically daring him to, and he hasn’t glanced over once. For a flicker of a moment, I fear that, even though his eyes are open, something got knocked about in the fall, and he’s concussed. Then he reaches into his jacket pocket, and takes out his phone. The huff that comes from my mouth is relief, but he interprets it as pique. “Sorry,” he says, eyes on his keyboard as he plucks. “There’s someone waiting for me at the wedding, and I need to explain.”

“No need to apologise,” I say. Someone?

He finishes his text, returns the phone to his pocket, and does that head shaking thing people do to rouse themselves, like a puppy who’s just come in from the rain.

I don’t want to find it adorable, but I do.

\--

He gets up first. “Right, well, that was fun,” he says, and holds out his hand. I don’t take it. “I’m fine,” I say, but as soon as I lift my bum off the floor and put weight on my ankle, I realise I’m not. I start to sit back down, but he grabs my hand, pulls me up and inward, saving me from putting weight on my ankle while propping me up. “Let’s see if you can stand,” he says, easing his hold a tiny bit. 

I can—mostly. In keeping with the déjà vu weirdness of this reunion, he says he really thinks I should see a doctor. I assure him I will, but I’d like to attend a bit of the wedding, at least apologise for fucking up the ceremony. We make small talk about how we know the couple. Niamh, it turns out, is his friend from primary school. “Wow. Weird,” I say.

“What?”

“You have friends.”

“I have old friends, yeah. Though some of them have drifted off. Freaked out by my career choice. They’re ‘normal people’ like you.” He smiles as if he’s remembering, stays there for a moment, then returns. “But I agree it’s weird, seeing each other out of context.” 

“We barely had a context,” I say. 

“Yeah,” he says, and for the first time really looks at me.

I squirm under his gaze, wondering how I must appear to him. 3 years isn’t that long, but it isn’t that short either. He’s gone grey around the temples, though of course it suits him. Even without the ravages of age, I’ve got to look like a mess: busted nose, blood everywhere. There are smears down my dress like I’m Carrie at the prom. I think one of those spiky heels got caught in the lining when I fell, because the dress is in tatters. Flimsy fabric, what I get for buying a knock off. 

There is no amount of small talk that is going to make any of this normal, so I say: “You don’t want to miss any more of the wedding than you already have, and I need to change. You go on. Maybe I’ll catch up with you there. If not, it was nice seeing you again.” I’m careful to sound casual, making it clear he’s under no obligation to spend any more time with me. We’ve had enough weirdness for the night. Maybe even the entire year – and it’s only January. He doesn’t move. I insist. “Go on, while there are still canapes. I can personally vouch for mini salmon cakes. Chef’s specialty.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “Not a salmon fan?” 

“You really think you can make it?” He’s looking down. “It doesn’t look good. Let me at least walk you where you need to go.” 

“You have to meet someone,” I remind him, making sure not to put too much emphasis on “someone” lest I reveal how curious and jealous just hearing him utter that word made me.

“Yeah. They’ll be okay,” he says. Mysterious.

“I can get someone on staff to help me,” I tell him. “They can’t say no, I own the place.”

“Oh,” he says, eyes jumping from wall to wall, taking in his surroundings. “I was getting the impression that maybe you had something to do with this place, but I didn’t realise it was yours. Wow. Impressive.” 

“Thank you. That means a lot coming from a food world influencer like yourself.” 

“Ack!” he cries, blushing and throwing his head back. “I was hoping you’d missed that very odd, and mostly mortifying, career diversion.”

“Nope,” I grin.

“The proceeds go to the parish, and we need the money, so I feel I have to. The book part, I like. Researching, all that. Can’t say the same for the promotional bullshit.” 

I’m still clasping his forearm for balance. I let go, and start to wobble. I’m pretty sure I’d stabilise on my own, but he reaches to steady me. My arms are akimbo, and so his hands land on my waist, one on each side. A second passes, then another, and another, his fingertips pressing into me with only the slightest of pressure. My hands are in that braced-for-a-fall position, palms up and out, flattened against his chest, thumbs grazing the buttons that run down the middle, fingers spread. His button-down looks new-shirt-crisp but feels expensive-cotton-soft. Does his publishing contract include a wardrobe budget? I feel his breath move into my hands, then away from them, into, then away. I notice a splotch of red on his shirt’s collar. It takes me a second to realise it’s my blood. 

We stay like this for some time, completely still. Then a finger on his right hand makes the slightest move to trace up the dress’s seam, stopping short when it reaches a tear in the fabric. It hovers before sneaking in, and when I feel the hot press of fingerprint on flesh, my knees go weak. Considering the state of my ankles, it’s a good thing he’s holding me up. Otherwise I’d completely buckle. The finger moves, making tiny windshield wiper strokes across my skin, threads popping as the hole expands. 

The kitchen is loud with plates clattering, pots clanging, and waitstaff calling orders. Impatient to get his whole hand in, he yanks, and the sound of ripping fabric is all I can hear. “Where should I take you?” he whispers in that way of his that somehow manages to be both seductive and nurturing, gentle yet so fucking hot; perfect with a tinge of perverse due to the unholy blend of fatherly and Fatherly.

I can’t speak, so I point in the direction of my office. He lifts me up to take me there.

\--

We don’t make it to the wedding part of the wedding. We miss the meal and the first dance and the speeches and the cake. Okay, that’s a lie, we eat cake. The waitstaff bring it back to slice and divvy, and so I hobble out to get us a couple of slices and a bottle of bubbly. It’s a lemon crème/Victoria sponge hybrid – a combo of the brides’ preferred flavours – and it’s fucking delicious. 

By the time we make it up there, it’s the after-party, which means all the children and older relatives are gone, and mostly it’s friends who remain. Oh, and the rude dog puppet. Everyone is good and plastered, especially the rude dog puppet, so no one cares where we’ve been. I’d expected it would be a Cinderella/pumpkin situation; that when we got upstairs, we’d keep our distance, make a show of not knowing each other. But everyone’s so hammered, it doesn’t seem necessary. We’re not reckless. We don’t snog in the middle of the dancefloor. But when all the Irish people get up to do the crazy Rock the Boat dance they do at weddings, we take seats in the line of conjoined revelers, me squeezed between his thighs, hands hugging his kneecaps, to sing at the top of our lungs about how we’re sailing with a cargo full of love and devotion.

And when the party moves into the pub for nightcaps, we scrunch together in the dark corner of my favourite booth and laugh with a revolving crew of guests that often includes at least one of each of our primary school friends, making it feel that, after 3 years, our paths haven’t just crossed, they’ve collided and converged. Under the table, thighs press, brazen hands roam, mischievous fingers dip and slip. We pay one more visit to my office, and return to find the party has dwindled. There are cars out front waiting to take us home. 

The someone he’d texted earlier was his childhood friend Ewan who’s in from Dublin and is crashing with him tonight. Ewan gets in a car, and waits. He stands at my side as I lock up the pub. “Promise you’re going to get that ankle checked tomorrow?” he says. I promise. He opens the door for me, holding it until I’m comfortably seated, then dips his head in to say goodbye. “So glad we got a chance to catch up,” he says with a wild grin, and reaches over to give my hand a squeeze.

It’ll be more than a year before I see him again.


	2. Edinburgh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imagine the most amazing first date, extended over several days, and paid for by someone else. It's extra potent due to our doomed impassioned history and that whole forbidden love thing, then there's the extra bonus of being away from everything and anyone we know, and the feeling that time has stopped in order for us to do this. This is so long overdue.
> 
> I'd say we were falling in love if we hadn't already done so years ago.

Parting ways with him that first time was devastating, of course it was, but the sadness wasn't the worst part. Loving him and thinking I'd tormented him -- that's what kept me up at night. So many times he'd told and shown me that this thing between us was unravelling him. Nevertheless, I'd persisted. (If I were American, I could run for president. I'd lose due to the whole being a woman thing, but clearly I've got the eye-on-the-prize, take-no-prisoners grit required. Yay?)

I'm not saying what happened was all on me. He made his choices. But I'm not proud of my part.

I never wanted him to give up the priesthood, at least not on my account. What would that have even looked like? His homily scared the shit out of me. To find love so destabilising, you stand wild-eyed before a bunch of strangers to shout about it?! Romantic relationships were too complicated for him. He'd told me, I just hadn't listened. If only darkness lay ahead for us, I didn't want to see it either. I needed to let go of the reins.

There would be no way to make things right, but I hoped that putting the choice in his hands gave him something back. At the bus stop, I knew what he'd choose, because it was the only choice. God could be peeved at him for straying, but proud of him for righting the course.

It's way better this time. He doesn't need to be careful about misleading me, and I don't need to feel guilty about having fucked with his shaky mental state. He doesn't even need to text me the next day, though he does. We keep it light. He says it was a pleasure to see me. I make fun of the word pleasure. We exchange gross injury pics. When the rude dog puppet gets fined for swearing on air, I text him the link. He replies with a choice string of exceptionally foul expletives, planting himself firmly on the side of the rude dog puppet. 

There's catharsis. It's a relief not to wonder when and how we'll reunite. When you’ve had something bouncing around your head for so long, not having it there reduces the noise. I follow him on Instagram, with no need to scour posts for glimpses or clues. When The Guardian gives the pub a nice write up, he sends congrats. When his next guidebook comes out, I do the same. We never get together, or talk about getting together. But, he remains in my orbit. I'm happy to have him there. 

There are still feelings, obviously. I don't ignore them, but I don't explore them either. They don't hold me back. I'd like to think they even help me. One night, around Christmas, I meet up with Tamsin and Niamh for cocktails. The ex-boyfriend/business partner and I are back on again, so he's with me. Their friend Ewan is in town. He pops in, mentions that once late night Mass is done, The Priest may join us. Yes, he calls him The Priest too. All their friends do. It was a joke at first, I guess due the absurdity of his dramatic life turn, but it has stuck, and he's good-natured enough to allow it. 

Just the mention of him, and I'm quickly calculating ways to send the ex-boyfriend/business partner home. The Priest never shows, but this is how I know it's time for the ex-boyfriend/business partner and I to be off again -- for good. I may never have the person I love most, but that doesn't mean I should settle for someone I love less.

If I were religious, I'd think he'd become my North Star. But I'm not.

\--

It takes 5 hours to get from London to Edinburgh, and I’m settled in my seat, air pods in, laptop fired up, excited to binge The Crown. I’m bending down to plug my computer into the outlet at the base of my chair and catch a glimpse of the passenger’s feet in front of me. How instantly I know they’re his, I will never be able to explain or understand. It’s not like the black trousers are immediately identifiable as his priest ones, and the footwear should throw me off. They’re Dr. Martens. 

In our early days of knowing each other, I relied on his non-priest clothes for clues as to who he'd been before, trying to gauge whatever I could from the ironic t-shirt he wore to sleep and the no-brand boxer-briefs, too soft to be some mass-market cheap poly-blend, probably imported from Sweden or, seeing as it's him, Italy. The Dr. Martens have a rebellious school girl vibe that does something for me. And that's before I realise they're combat boots. What is hotter than a priest in combat boots? Where do you think he bought them? Did he go to a shop? Buy them online? Did Pam pick them up for him?

It's been a couple months since our last communication, and that hadn’t been much. Just him texting to say he’d just bumped into my godmother at the church fair, and me sending a vomit emoji back.

Are you wearing combat boots?

I listen for a plink, then remember we’re in the quiet car, and phones need to be on silent. I’d forgotten to turn mine off, but of course, ever the good citizen, he hadn’t. So, it takes him a minute. 

What? 

Yes or no, are you wearing combat boots?

Is this some sort of internet thing I don’t understand?

YES OR NO????

I hear a chuckle in front of me and don’t need him to reply, though he does: Um, yes?????

Look behind you.

I’m on a train.

Is he being purposely obtuse? Has he already seen me, and now he's playing with me? I KNOW, I type. There's a sharp breath, and a bit of rustling, and a second later, he's peering over the seat, all beautiful and bug-eyed. We stare at each other for at least a full minute before he says what we’re both thinking: “Holy fuck.”

Not only are we both going to Edinburgh. We’re both attending the Whisky Festival there. He's going for his new guide book which, I have to say, is maybe too good a fit, its focus being on religious tradition and alcohol. (Will you be shocked to hear that the working title includes the words Holy and Spirits? No, you will not.) I’m going to do research for the pub. This isn't exactly a work trip I have to take, but I've been in desperate need of a break for a while, and one of the festival sponsors is comping my trip. Travel and a room at a hotel – a luxury one. With a spa. 

He’s staying there, too.

We don’t even pretend what’s obviously going to happen isn’t. He switches to the seat next to mine, and he has already got his collar off. Soon, I’m cosied in his arms, and we’re sharing air pods to watch The Crown together. The train approaches Edinburgh. When he reaches up to get our bags off the luggage rack, his shirt rides up, gifting me a flash of abs. He catches me looking, and smirks. He throws both bags over one shoulder like it's nothing. We stand side-by-side in a queue of passengers that hasn’t yet moved. He crooks a finger through the belt-loop of my jeans, linking us. When the train jostles to a stop, his knuckle burrows into the flesh of my hip. We remain still, waiting for the guard to open the doors, so that, finally, we can get off.

\--

It's an old grand dame of a hotel. When I text Claire where I am, she types back REALLY? I know she loves me, but she's used to being the successful one, and seems to have trouble adjusting to my solvency, let alone something that might indicate more. She shouldn't worry, I'm nowhere close to catching up.

It turns out that most of the festival attendees are staying in a nearby hotel that is equally as nice, but more modern, and totally full. The overflow are here, and as far as we can tell, that's just us. As it is, we don't know anyone else attending the festival, so we decide it's safe to try and exchange our two double rooms for a junior suite. 

We enter our suite, devote the requisite minute or so to marvelling at the amazing view of the old castle, and ogling the enormous bathtub. We check out the welcome basket from the festival sponsor: two healthy-sized bottles, and a variety of nibbles. There's a sitting room with a cushy sofa, a gigantic television, a desk, and armchairs. French doors lead to an adjoining bedroom. He pulls the doors open, and we stand in the threshold, not close enough to touch, but close enough so I can hear his sharp inhale as he takes it in. Velvet curtains hang from the ceiling, sheathing the window, so the room is dim and cool. Aside from a very narrow dresser over which hangs another massive television screen, there is no furniture but for a very large bed. I'd guess it's king-sized, but honestly it looks even bigger, so maybe it has been customised. The bed is dressed in a way that's simple but luxurious, everything -- the coverlet, the throw cushions, the fur blanket strewn across the bottom -- a slightly different neutral hue of taupe or beige. I turn to look at him, and see the colour has drained from his cheeks. It's as if he's a chameleon who has transformed to match his surroundings. "You okay?" I ask, frightened to hear the answer.

He looks down at his feet, then up at the ceiling. He stays like that for longer than I'd like, and I'm reminded of how he appeared after delivering the homily at my father's wedding when he'd turned his gaze away from me and up to the sky, returning his love to its rightful owner. 

"Do you think I'm being tested or rewarded?" His voice is breathy. I'm scared he might cry.

I keep silent. What can I say? I'm not the one who talks to God. 

"Yeah, I don't know either," he mopes.

The next moment is excruciating. His silence does nothing to ease my revving mind as I reconcile with the possibility that he is going to let this opportunity pass us by. I remind myself to go with what he chooses, and that I'm not allowed to persuade. He's on the cusp, so I know it wouldn't be hard to sway things my way, but I refuse to let myself try, because I don't want to live with the consequences. 

But as quick as his plunge into indecision had been, his return to the moment is quicker, his determination to savour it even stronger. He moves so fast, I don't see it coming. I'm slouched against the doorframe, a stance that mirrors my disappointment, when he lunges. Strong hands gripping my underarms, he hauls me toward him, then hoists me like a sleeping child at the end of a long car journey. He flops me over his shoulder, I laugh in joy and shock, the blood rushes to my head. He steps toward the edge of the bed, kneels on the mattress, and allows me to fall slowly backward. Before my head can hit the bed, he slips a hand behind my neck for protection. 

It's such a nice bed. It will be hours before we leave it.

\----

The next days are busy with walking tours and factory visits, boozy lunches and boozier dinners. There are whisky tastings and cocktail parties, and after-dinner cordials. We take late-night candle-lit walks along the walls of the castle, flasks of different vintages passing from person to person. We attend as much of the festival as we feel we should, stealing as much time for ourselves as we can. We have coffee and pastries delivered to the room, take long baths, wear fluffy robes to lie in our giant bed and watch The Crown.

We've never had this much time. We've barely had any time. It comes as no surprise to either of us that we're compatible. It'd be easier if we weren't. But just our dumb luck, we can't get enough of each other. Being with him is easy, never boring and always fun. Imagine the most amazing first date, extended over several days, and paid for by someone else. It's extra potent due to our doomed impassioned history and that whole forbidden love thing, then there's the extra bonus of being away from everything and anyone we know, and the feeling that time has stopped in order for us to do this. This is so long overdue.

I'd say we were falling in love if we hadn't already done so years ago. 

Our last day is a free day. I treat us each to a massage. The hotel spa is perfect. Not barren and clinical looking like they can sometimes be. It's inviting and pretty. There are staff-members there if you need anything, but they don't pamper you, which is how I like it. I don't feel comfortable being doted on, and I can't imagine he would either. At the centre of the spa is an indoor pool, heated to the perfect temperature of not--too-hot. Pink and yellow bulbs light it from the bottom. They combine with steam to make a gauzy pastel haze that hovers just above the water's surface. There are lounge chairs and tiny tables piled high with magazines. Cucumber circles and melon moons float atop pitchers of water. I pour us each a tumbler. He has pulled two lounge chairs together so we can be close. He is lying down, and though his eyes are shut, he hears me coming, and pats the empty spot beside him. I place the tumblers on a table, remind him to drink so he doesn't get dehydrated. He murmurs that he will. The massages have left us loose-limbed, the steam keeps us dozy, I lie on my side, rest my head on his outstretched arm, and press my face into the triangle of exposed skin at the opening of his robe. His skin is soft and gleaming, glazed with massage oil that smells like eucalyptus. He shifts toward me, rests his chin on top of my head, and drapes his outer arm over me, his hand finds its way into my hair. 

Have you ever experienced a moment so perfect, it's painful? The better it feels, the worse it is, because all you can think about is when it will end? That is this moment. It's a confusion of feelings: I want to cling as tight as I can, and at the same time, run as far away as I can get. I shudder, my body's way to express the dissonance I'm feeling. He moves his hand from my hair down to my back, rubbing circles, and tightening his hold, kisses my hairline. 

He doesn't ask me what's wrong because he knows. 

\--

That night, we tuck ourselves into our giant bed for the last time to finish the final episode of The Crown, and we both succumb. This is that end-of-summer-holiday-melancholy I remember from being a kid -- only more tragic because we're old and know that whatever life has in store for us, nothing will likely feel better, or maybe even close to as good, as this does now. We are trying hard to hold it together. No one wants to say anything to bring the other down, but our heavy sighs betray us. "What are you thinking?" he whispers.

I don’t know why I tell him the truth, but I fuck up and do. 

“Have you ever seen this old movie called Same Time, Next Year? I haven't either, but my mum used to talk about it. A man and a woman are in love, but they’re married to other people, so they meet up at a hotel one weekend a year."

Fearing where I'm going, he cuts me off. "We’re not doing that," he says sharply.

"Who suggested we should?!? You asked me what I was thinking, and that's what I was thinking about." I'm being defensive. I take a breath, try to return us to a more normal place. "I remember telling Mum I thought it sounded romantic, and she was like: 'Not for the husband and wife they abandon at home every year, it doesn't.' "

"Indeed," he says, sinking back down.

"Though, if you think about it... we kind of already are doing that. I'm not married, and you only figuratively are, so it wouldn't be as wrong as it is in the movie..." 

"No."

I'm doing what I didn't want to do, pressuring him, and now that I've started, I can't seem to stop. "We've seen each other two years in a row. Same thing, each time. It's bound to happen again. The only difference is we won't be leaving it up to chance. We'll be organised about it. Come on. Just consider it. It'll give us something to look forward to."

He shakes his head, gives me a sad smile. “We can’t.”

“We can’t or you can’t?”

“You can’t. I obviously shouldn’t, but I really can’t because you can’t.”

It takes me a second to suss out what he has said. “I can't? Why can't I?”

"It’ll hold you back. It’ll stop you." 

"Stop me from...?"

He swallows hard, grimaces, showing me that what he's about to say is not something I'm going to want to hear. "It'll stop you from finding love." 

My stomach drops, and I groan. "Oh, I see. Because I'm getting up there? Or is it that my biological clock is ticking? Or does there just come a time in a young woman's life when she has to settle down? What if I don't ever want to get married?" 

It has crossed my mind over the years, that due to his professional affiliation, there's a possibility he has a socially conservative strain I'll find repellent. It's possible I've told myself this to make myself feel better about losing him. It's also possible it's true.

"No. Stop that. You're misunderstanding me on purpose. You should have love. All the time. Someone who can give you what I can’t."

There are so many things I might say to this, but won't. I really don't know how I muster the restraint. “Fine," I say, turn my back to him in defiance. "I'll try to meet someone."

“Good,” he says. "Turn back around."

"No," I say, because tears are on the way and I don’t want him to see. 

“What is it?"

"I wish that hadn't been so easy for you to bring up. I would hate to think of you with someone else."

"Well, lucky for you, you don't have to." He presses his forehead against my back, kisses down my spine. "I can assure you that it will gut me,” he says. "Now that we've had this time..... It'll be even worse than when we let each other go the first time, and that was --." He doesn't finish. He hasn't told me what that time was like for him, has only intimated it wasn't good. “It will be hell for me. But holding you back, stopping you from having the life you deserve. That would fucking kill me.” 

When he blinks, his eyelashes skim my back, and I can feel that they are damp. 

\--

We are both booked on the earliest train back to London. He has to conduct a mid-morning service, I have my monthly meeting with the manager at Hillary's. It's still dark when I wake up, and the alarm hasn't even rung. I open my eyes to see that he's already awake. He has been waiting for me. "Okay," he says.

I'm groggy and confused. "Huh?"

"Okay," he repeats. "Okay to your idea. Same year, next time. I mean --.

I cut him off. “Yeah?” Now I'm awake.

“Yeah. But there are going to be rules. And you have to promise me you’ll follow them.” He looks so serious, and it's so cute, I peck a tiny kiss on the tip of his nose. He smiles. 

"Okay, what are the rules?"

He shakes his head. "I want to put them in writing first, then we can discuss. The contract will be non-binding, but the terms will be non-negotiable. You agree to follow the rules, we try it. You don't, we don't. I'll outline them for you on the train."

"So you were you a solicitor in your previous life?!" 

"Something like that." Whenever I ask him about his work life before, he keeps it vague. He glances at the clock. "We have time to shower if we get going now." He does that funny lip twitch he does when he thinks he might get lucky. If anything could have me bounding out of bed before 5AM, it's that lip twitch. 

It's a short walk to the rail station. He carries our bags. I buy take away coffees and 2 croissants at the cafe kiosk, and then we board the train to London. In 5 hours, this will be over and we will be home. 

It goes too fast. Right before we disembark, he puts his collar on.


	3. The Highlands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever seen a home video of a soldier back from war reuniting with their dog? The dog goes crazy, tail thumping in ecstasy, hurling its furry body at the soldier. That's what we're like when we get inside. Only we're both the dog.

2 months pass. I miss him in a way I wouldn't have expected. It's odd. If I've grown accustomed to anything over the last years, it's his absence, you think it'd be easy to just slip back in. What happened at Tamsin and Niamh's wedding; moving on was a cinch. But Edinburgh hurts, and not in the same way the first time round did either. So much of that grief was rooted in feeling robbed, of not even getting our chance. I didn't know what I was missing. After Edinburgh, I do. 

I've been working like mad. It helps me from wallowing, and really I don't have a choice, we're swamped. The pub has started doing lunch and breakfast, and we're working on a Sunday brunch menu. To get even half of what I need done, I have to be out of the house at 5:30AM. He told me that he gets up at the same time, and I do enjoy knowing that perhaps at the exact same moment I'm locking the door to my flat, he is tiptoeing down the stairs of the rectory; that while I'm walking down the high street, listening to a podcast, he's circling the park on his morning run, ruminating about God.

I try not to be sentimental, it will only makes this more difficult, but it's not always easy. 

We didn't get to hammer out all the details for our once-a-year scheme when we were on the train, so we make an appointment to talk. I would prefer a different kind of phone date, but won't dare suggest it. I still only half-believe this thing will happen, and I'm scared to do anything that pushes him to reconsider. I'm going to keep myself in check. Don't flirt. Don't tease. Don't do anything to unsettle or, in his words, get in the way of his peace. And I do really, really care about his peace -- as incompatible with my own interests as this might be.

I'm aware this isn't a healthy dynamic I'm trying to cultivate. I shouldn't be muting myself for him, or for anyone. I shouldn't have to hold myself back, squelch my needs or desires. In the case that I actually have any beliefs, I'm pretty certain all that goes against them. It's just for this phone call. It's not like it's something I could sustain anyway -- restraint is not one my strengths.

Once, minding Claire's twins, I heard the first strums of a lullaby, and knew my mother had sung it to me. I had no memory of this, nor had I heard the song in decades, but I was certain. Later, I asked Claire, and she confirmed. He calls at 9PM sharp. Hearing his voice again is like hearing a lullaby I don't remember, to which I somehow know all the words. 

He has said only "Hey." 

I have a flash of memory from Edinburgh, when, holding hands, we eased ourselves into that hot hotel pool, allowing our pinkening limbs to adjust to the temperature. Ankle-deep, then wait, knee-deep, then wait... We stay quiet for several long beats as we ease ourselves into this moment.

And then he gets right down to business. He begins with "I've given it a lot of thought, and..." My entire body clutches as I brace myself for his reversal. I'm already in bed. My back goes rigid against the headboard, my toes crook, and I'm gripping the duvet like I'm watching a horror movie and it's the person next to me's sleeve. But then he launches into a discussion of the rules, only he has decided there's really only one. It is: I have to try to meet someone I love, and if I meet someone I love -- or think I might , maybe, possibly love -- I have to cancel. Even if I meet this person the night before we're meant to go away, and I think there is maybe an inkling of potential, I have to call it off, and he will understand, no questions asked. 

Sounds kind of vague. "How will you know if I'm keeping my end of the deal?" I ask.

"I won't," he says, "but you will." 

"How can you be so sure?

"Because I know you." He holds me in higher regard than I merit. It's inconvenient. 

"What if I don't feel like dating anyone? If I just want to be alone?"

"I'm not in charge of you! As long as you're scrupulously honest with yourself about why that is. If it has anything to do with me, then that is a problem. Please. I need to know you're working toward something better. I won't be able to do this otherwise." 

Considering our past, I am curious how he thinks he'll be able to do this at all, if he will really allow himself a yearly vow breakage, but it's not in my interests to question it, or get him thinking too much about it.

There's a bit of a back-and-forth, bureaucratic stuff mainly about who will make the plans and when for. We wrap that up, and maybe because we know how long it will be before we next connect, give ourselves a minute. We go quiet, but it's not the regular kind of quiet. We make sounds so slight, I don't think anyone else would hear them. The silent courtship of grasshoppers rubbing legs to wings to voice desire. "I should let you go," he whispers. The phrasing makes me wince. But he means because it's late. It's 9:35.

The year passes, not too slowly, but not too quickly either. I hold up my end of the deal, if only because I won't want to lie to him when (or if) I see him. I'm guessing he suspected this would be the case -- how he knew I'd go through with it. I don't go out every night, but I try to meet someone new at least a couple times a month. I suffer a dry spell in January. There's a boon in Spring. The dates yield some very good meals, fun, delicious wine, and maybe even a friendship or two, but they don't yield love. 

\----

He is waiting in front of the cafe across from the platform, 2 takeaway coffees in hand. In an instant, it's clear. We've made a rookie error. Fearing the nightmare of London traffic, we've decided to take public transport, but the crowded station, and the accompanying risk of seeing parishioners, don't allow us a proper hello. We are face-to-face for the first time in a year. It's already awkward. We're both nervous. These physical constraints kick it up a notch. We do our best. He hands me my coffee, and our fingers take a moment to interlace. He takes my bag off my shoulder, allows his hand to linger, lets his pretty fingers breeze against my neck. The express train is standing room only; we cram in a corner, take advantage of any bump or jolt. At the airport, I need change to buy us water. He presses his thumb to my palm before letting the coin drop. 

I'm hoping that once we're on the plane, we'll have some privacy. But it's one of those 3 seats on either side configurations. We are nearing our row, and I see that the passenger on the aisle is already seated, and she is a nun, habit and all. "Friend of yours?" I turn back and ask, jutting my chin in the direction he should look.

"What?" It takes him a second. "Oh, Jesus Christ," he says a little too loudly.

"Is that how you guys say hello? Like a secret handshake?"

"What are you on about--? Oh, stop it, we don't all know each other." 

I shrug. "I don't know how it works."

"Go on," he says, a tiny shove pushing me forward. "Maybe you and she will hit it off, and you can get her to break her vows as well."

He places our luggage in the overhead compartment, then pauses in place. I can't tell if he's gazing into the compartment to make sure our bags are secure, casting his sights at the heavens, or just spacing out. If he's worried the nun is a sign from God, I can't say I blame him. It's hard to ignore. A little too slapstick for my tastes, though I guess God's not known for his subtlety. He gives his head a tiny shake I can't decipher, then turns his eyes on me, and without looking away, peels his jacket off, one sleeve at a time. He begs the nun's pardon so he can get past her, drops into his seat, buckles himself in, then drapes the jacket length-wise across his lap and partially over mine; slides a hand underneath. Our breath staggers at our first real touch, faces turn inward, noses near tip-to-tip. I can smell his shampoo. The flight attendant arrives at our row, leans over the poor nun, and scowls, angry that she has to remind us: All seatbelts must be visibly fastened before take-off. In other words: move that jacket. He acquiesces, though he's slow about it, folds the jacket under the seat in front of him, then reaches across my lap to take my hand. 

A quick flight, and we are back in Scotland, The Highlands this time. We're staying at an old castle nestled at the bottom of a mountain. It's dark when we arrive. I have never seen him be rude, especially not to people in the service industry with whom he is the perfect blend of courteous and chatty. By the time we get to our hotel, he's so impatient that when the concierge asks us whether we'd like someone to escort us to our accommodations, he rips the key-cards from the poor man's hand before it has even been extended. Without another word, he grabs my elbow, scoots us out. "Thank you!" I call. The concierge bids us goodnight, adds that breakfast will be served at --. We're already out the door, and don't hear what time.

It's dark. Our accommodations are down a path illuminated by fairy lights. We have our own little house at the base of the property. It used to belong to the man in charge of the stables. Now it's for hotel guests who prefer privacy. Apparently, that's us. We didn't wait to hear instructions, and now we can't get the key-card to work. He is swearing up a storm swiping it every which way, turning it upside and over. Stoplight red, every time. Fuming, he thwacks the card against the doorframe. I think the card is going to snap in half, but one last try and we're in.

Have you ever seen a home video of a soldier back from war reuniting with their dog? The dog goes crazy, tail thumping in ecstasy, hurling its furry body at the soldier. That's what we're like when we get inside. Only we're both the dog. We paw, claw, cry and whimper, pounce and pant. He nips. I'm pretty sure I slobber. It's quick, messy, savage and exquisite. Our proper hello at last.

The next morning, we open our eyes to a world we've never seen. 

\---

We go on a hike. Neither of us are too keen on the mountain, so we opt for a hill instead. With a walking path. So, really, we go on a walk. We pack his rucksack with local goodies purchased in the town's teeny village: scotch eggs, shortbread, whisky flavoured crisps; he chooses some local ale. We're going to consume all this when we get to the top. I'm looking forward to that part. 

He doesn't sound like he wants to ask me how the dating went this year, but he does, I guess because he feels he has to. I keep my answer short and mostly vague. "I saw you out once," he says. It's unexpected, and I stop short. There's a branch on the path. He catches my elbow before I trip. "You okay? Sorry, sorry, didn't mean to --. It wasn't a big deal. I was at that Italian place near Borough Market, I can never remember its fucking name." Neither can I, but I know the one he means. "You were with some guy. Tall, beard, leather jacket." 

At first I couldn't remember who I'd been at that place with; now I do. One of the fun dates with a theatre director -- a dinner that turned into another that turned into a fun weekend that turned into, well, nothing. He must have been at the restaurant when we were on our second date. Theatre Director and I were at that sweet spot of newly intimate and barely knowing each other. I remember a lot of tequila, a pint or two, and an after-dinner stint at the bar where we were rather demonstrative. 

I'm sorry he had to see that, though of course I shouldn't be, and won't under any circumstances say so. I attempt to redirect the conversation, sounding a little too cheerful when I ask, "Well, weren't you happy to see I was keeping up my end of the deal?" 

He chuckles. "Yeah, in the complicated way you might imagine, I was."

"Who were you with?" I ask, desperate to change the subject, though scared about his answer. I don't want him to say alone. 

"Ewan. He wanted to go say hi."

"Why didn't he?"

"I wouldn't let him."

I don't think it's possible, but I ask anyway. "Wait, does Ewan know?"

"God, no!" He says it so emphatically, sounding so horror-stricken, it's hard not to feel offended. "I didn't mean it like how that --."

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

He chuckles. "Ewan is a fucking gossip. I love him, but I'm not telling him shit. He's known me a long time. A long, long time. He saw how I got when I saw you with that man, and just fucking knew," He winces in that automatic way one might when they hear someone describe breaking a bone or getting a jab, though he's talking about a different sort of pain, and it's his own. "Relentless bastard. Kept saying we should send you guys drinks. Just trying to get under my skin. Gave me a hard time all weekend." He shakes his head, then realises something. "I'm sorry. I had no right to mention feeling jealous. That was wrong. Damn." Angry at himself, he steps harder on the path. A puff of dust rises from the earth. 

"It's okay," I say, and I'm sincere. It's true he had no right to say it. It's also true that I was pleased to hear it. "What'd Ewan give you a hard time about?"

"Oh, you know, he can regress, schoolyard stuff, taking the piss, saying I fancy you." He's a couple steps ahead of me. He sees something and bounds forward. "Come!" he calls, doing that whole-handed swishing gesture kids do when they want you to hurry and join them.

I didn't realise how far we'd gotten. I'm not wearing a watch and we didn't bring our phones, I have no idea if the climb was actually fast or if it just felt that way. We've reached the top. The air smells like wet wool. It's green all the way down. The sky is shiny. I sidle close, slip my arm into his. "So, do you?" He's confused. He doesn't know what I'm asking. "Fancy me," I finish.

The wind nips, flushing his cheeks pink. Or maybe he's blushing. "Yeah," he says. "I do." From the top of the hill, we aren't able to see our little house, but we can see the castle, and the big mountain behind it. "Next time, we should climb that one," he points.

"When's next time? You mean tomorrow?" We're going to the spa at the castle tomorrow. I've booked hot stone massages. The day after that, we go home.

"No, no, not tomorrow... I don't know... I didn't mean this time," he trails off, turns his gaze away from the mountain. He's not looking at anything now. He's just looking away. "Just, you know...." I can only barely hear him. "Sometime."


	4. The Alps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He catches my hand before it can reach the door handle. Body twisted to hover over me, his face is so close, and he looks so stern. I honestly can't tell if he's dead serious, or just fucking around. He moves his hand to my breast bone, palm forward, thumb and index finger in a V just below my neck, holding me in place. It's just enough force to make me desperate to kiss him, but he doesn't allow it. "I remember that night. You saw how fucking wracked I was. You felt pity for me. I saw your eyes. I may have been the one who walked away first, but you gave me a shove."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything has changed so much, it's hard to imagine anyone is out there to read this. (And I know that blue lock limits readership anyway...) But I can't not finish, if only for the selfish reason that writing it is therapeutic for me. I kind of wasn't thinking about how this is set in the future; realising this gave me a moment of pause, and also a bit of hope. Things WILL someday go back to normal, they always do, everything passes, isolation is only temporary, and, just like our beloved lovelorn characters, we'll eventually return to each other. In the meantime, stay safe, and if this gives even one person a few minutes of distraction, I'm happy I posted. xx

We are staying in a red-roofed chalet that resembles a toadstool from a children's picture book, and looks like it'd be better suited to a family of woodland creatures in period dress than this pub-owning Londoner and her once-a-year shagging partner, the dissolute Catholic priest. I shuffle into the kitchen to put the kettle on, half-expecting to see a bushy-tailed scullery maid rolling dough for nut pie. Perhaps she'll be able to point me in the direction of the teabags. Sadly, she has scurried off, and I have to scrounge around myself. 

The inside of the chalet is warm and woody. I climb the windy stairs to our bedroom, careful not to slosh tea onto my top. It's his top, actually, but I've already staked my claim. Last year I nicked his grey hoodie. Stealing from a man of god is probably not the best course of action if you're looking to enter the kingdom of heaven, but it'll be the least of my problems, and I've got to get whatever I can out of this deal. 

The bedroom has a tree house feel, light and airy; at its centre is a 4 poster bed canopied in billowy silk. If the family of woodland creatures included a hedgehog princess, she'd sleep here. So there's incongruity to the sight of a strapping muscle-bound man strewn across it. There's also glory. He hears me come in, turns over; his voice gruff and urgent, he demands to know where I've been for so fucking long.

I've been gone 5 minutes.

As soon as I place the mugs on the bedside table, grabby hands and waggling fingers come for me.

The way he's acting, you'd think we hadn't seen each other in a year. 

\---

The Swiss Alps in summertime is not something I'd have thought to do, but highly recommend. There are wildflowers and wild berries, little girls who look like Heidi. The village looks like a music box. 

We find an outdoor cafe, and over cold beer and a massive cheese board, catch up.

There are questions about work and family. He tells me that Pam has had some health problems. I'm sorry to hear it. I tell him about Claire's new pregnancy. He tells me about his latest guidebook (Need a lamb shank for a Passover Seder? Want to know where to get the best mince pies at Christmas? Fancy a deep dive into the controversial history of the Easter Basket. This is the one for you.) I tell him about the addition we're putting onto the pub. He scrolls through pictures of the construction, asking questions, paying requisite homage to the gorgeous new ovens we've purchased. I ask about this year's communion class. He knows I want to hear all the teen goss, and indulges me as much he can. He tells me about the conference in Northern Italy he went to, and how much I'd have loved it there. He says it was just the kind of pizza I like, thin with lots of burn-y bits. I tell him about the new drink we're serving, a combo of whisky and tea that made me think of him because he once said it was his grandfather's cure-all for colds. He says we should buy the ingredients so I can make it for him. Evening is approaching, I'm wearing short sleeves, he takes off his jumper, crosses to my side of the table, and throws it over my shoulders to keep me warm.

So much of our limited time together is spent in thrall of the physicality of our feelings. It catches us both by surprise that somehow, even with the months of absence, we've also gotten to know each other -- well. 

That night, we retire to our treehouse bedroom with a bottle of wine and two glasses, and a plan to watch something. There's a new series of The Crown, the last one actually. They released it a month ago. I felt weird about texting him to tell him to wait, like somehow that would be against the rules. But I waited anyway, just in case. He's got an I-pad balanced on his knees. He's waiting for me to come and choose. I slip under the covers. I don't want him to think I expected him to, so I try my best to be casual. "You probably watched the new series of The Crown, right?"

"What? No?!" He sounds offended. "What do you think I am, a monster? Of course I waited for you." 

Huh.

\---

Nothing has changed, but something has shifted. I don't know if it's him or if it's me or if it's both of us. I'm not complaining, it's all as incredible as ever, it just... Heavier isn't the right word, because that makes it sound like too much. It's not, far from it. Deeper? More intense? Richer? It's some combination of all of those things, the difference between clotted cream and butter, port and prosecco, a vintage cabernet and a light rosé.

Maybe we're just getting older.

Did I mention this trip is longer than the others? We're staying a full week. The chalet doesn't do short-term lets, a week is the shortest, so we had no choice; we decided it would be wrong to just waste the extra days. A week allows for a lot of downtime, which both of us would appear to need. On the sides of the bed are heavy drapes to blackout the sun. We pull them shut for luxurious afternoon naps. It's what I imagine it'd be like to hibernate in a cave. There is something so remarkable about waking up to total darkness and only each other, like being down the rabbit hole, except our Wonderland is safe and calm and sweet and everything Alice's isn't. 

We load our cute hired car with provisions from the market. On the drive back to the chalet, we get the "How'd the dating go this year?" conversation out of the way. I tell him the basic gist: Some dates; one guy and I even took a stab at monogamy; after a week, he cheated, and then called crying to tell me so, and I'm not sure which put me off more. I was with a couple of women with whom I thought it could be something. This piques his interest, I realise because he thinks I meant both at the same time. I let him down gently. 

I tell him that my ex-boyfriend/business partner professed his love...again. I'm driving, and he has his head turned toward the passenger window, so I can't see what, if any, reaction this provokes. I say: "Honestly, I think doing the rejecting is worse than being rejected, you know."

"Hmmm, well, it's been a long time." 

"Yeah, I guess that was a long time ago." I turn into the driveway, hear the spray of tiny stones clack the wheels' metal rims. 

"What?" he says. I shut off the engine, turn and look at him. Does he really need clues? Bus stop, wedding, proclamations of love. It's funny how we've never actually discussed all that. "WHAT?" he repeats. Then he realises what I'm saying. His voice raises. "Oh. No, no, no, no, no you don't. I didn’t reject you back then. Unless what you mean by that is I rejected all of my principles, risked everything to spend one night with you. I rejected everything for you. I assume that's what you meant, right?!" 

"Well, not exactly......" He undoes his seatbelt, letting it spring back hard. 

He catches my hand before it can reach the door handle. Body twisted to hover over me, his face is so close, and he looks so stern. I honestly can't tell if he's dead serious, or just fucking around. He moves his hand to my breast bone, palm forward, thumb and index finger in a V just below my neck, holding me in place. It's just enough force to make me desperate to kiss him, but he doesn't allow it. "I remember that night. You saw how fucking wracked I was. You felt pity for me. I saw your eyes. I may have been the one who walked away first, but you gave me a shove."

"Okay, but even so," I challenge, "you didn't have to walk away. Technically, you did kind of reject me." 

"You are so full of shit." I chase his lips. He refuses me. "You could have had me for longer, it wouldn't have taken much, we could have made a bigger mess of it. You sure as fuck tried for more before we had sex, but you didn't try after. You wanted out, you saw the state I was in, you could see I'm not cut out for--." He doesn't finish his sentence, and before I can ask what he thinks he's not cut out for, his rant picks up. "You knew what I needed and even the best way to give it to me. You led me to choose, and you showed us both mercy by doing so." His face is so close, but his grip is so firm. He's teasing me, and he's enjoying it. "Think you're clever, don't you? Trying to hoodwink me. Think I don't know how fucking compassionate you are, huh?" 

And then he's kissing me. 

See? Not bad intense. But, intense.

\---

In keeping with tradition, the day before we leave, we follow a windy road up to a mountaintop spa. It looks like an enormous log cabin. From the front courtyard, we can see billowing clouds rising from the thermal baths; the smack of hot steam on cold air. I cannot wait to get in. But first we have appointments for salt scrubs and shiatsu massages. 

We have never seen each other in swimming costumes. After our treatments, we separate to shower and change. The changing rooms exit onto the baths. I see him standing there, all scrubbed and steamy, in these cute but totally nondescript swim shorts, and my knees knock. He makes a throaty noise, sort of like a greeting, and sort of like "Mmmm," and I'm blushing as if he's seeing my body for the first time. It makes no sense that we should be so awkward. It is also so, so fun. We're leering adolescents looking for a secret place to snog. I don't know how, but he seems to know where to go. He takes my hand, leads me through the steam, behind the saltwater waterfall, where the rock wall crooks, and there's a small seat built into the side of the pool. It's perfect.

We've found it's best to schedule something active for our final night -- wards off the-going-home-blues. Honestly, it's a bit like going to the funeral of someone who asked that their life be celebrated, not mourned. Everyone is sad underneath, but there's solace in the collective effort to stay spirited. We dress up, drink syrup-y cocktails on a mountainside terrace. The restaurant serves old-fashioned local cuisine, most of which involve heaps of cheese. We eat rosti and raclettes and chocolate fondue, then end the night at the local pub. The summer Olympics are on. Tonight there's a football match: Switzerland v. Ireland. Neither of us, including those who are Irish, care about the match, but we enjoy the spectacle of a rollicking crowd, and on that the pub delivers.There are party poppers and frothy goblets of stout, chants in German we don't understand, songs in French sung too fast to decipher, and then there are tears. Not because the Swiss lose, they trounce the Irish, but because the beloved Swiss goalkeeper is retiring, and this match was his last hurrah. 

Because of the time difference, the match didn't start till late, so we don't get back to the chalet until long past midnight. It's good because we really don't have time to wallow. It's bad because we're leaving in the morning to get him back for a work thing, and I'm still not packed. He offers to help, but I'm too shattered to do it now. I set the alarm on my phone, so I can do it in the morning. 6 hours later, it goes off, and I give myself 5 more minutes. I mean to hit snooze. Instead, I turn it off.

I'm not sure which of us drew the curtains closed on the bed. He will claim it was me, though I have no memory of doing so. The point is, without the alarm or sun to rouse us, when we finally wake up, it is long past morning and long past our flight's departure time. Our week in the chalet ends in a foul-tempered, gut-churning taxi ride to the airport, so much swearing, and a decent-sized row, at least the biggest one we've ever had. He keeps saying he knows it's not my fault, but then getting furious anyway. I say he can't talk to me like that, and anyway, he's the one who planned last night's festivities and booked our flight too fucking early. And if it was so important to leave on time, shouldn't he have set an alarm too? He apologises, I apologise, but then we start up again. It's very stupid. We sound like an old married couple, that's how stupid it is.

We get to the airport. There are queues, airline fees, a security mishap -- I hid a wheel of cheese in my suitcase -- and purchases of overpriced paracetamol to ease our slamming headaches. Our names are the last on a long standby list for a flight that leaves in 4 hours, we're waiting at the gate. Someone--Pam?--A bishop?--God?-- rings him about churchy stuff, and he pops around the corner to take the call in private. I take the opportunity to chat with the woman at the boarding gate. He returns, 2 takeaway coffees in hand. I take them both. "Come on, " I say. "Get the bags. We're confirmed on an earlier flight, and I got us an upgrade."

Sitting on a plane is sitting on a plane, but it's a lot nicer if it's first class, when you're not just sitting, you're reclining. "I don't understand how you did this," he whispers, pressing the edge of the flute to the plump of his bottom lip. I'm not sure Champagne is what we need right now, but neither of us said no when the flight attendant came round.

"Miracle?!" I reply, and look up. He doesn't buy it. "My charm? My wiles?" 

"That I'd be more inclined to believe." 

"Okay, fine, I used miles." He looks upset, like that was too much, and he will want to compensate me. I protest: "No! I have tons! They were about to expire anyway." It's a lie. The only way to get on the flight was to buy first class, and I paid a hefty sum. I just couldn't let the week end how it was ending, especially because I suspect that this might be our last hurrah. 

The blankets are thicker in first class, softer too. The flight is perfectly timed for us to finish the final episodes of The Crown. The flight attendant announces we're preparing for landing just as the final credits roll. He powers the I-pad down. "When's the next one coming out?" he asks. 

"Aww, do you really not know?" He looks confused. I gently inform him there won't be another one. "They cut the series short. That was it."

"Why???" he says in the over-animated pitchy way that I adore, but is perhaps too much for the well-coiffed turning heads in first class. "How can they end it there? There's so much more story to tell!"


	5. Collisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My mum used to say that sometimes she'd walk into the kitchen, see my dad doing the dishes, and feel just as bowled over as she did the first time she saw him. (They used to fight about whose turn it was to do the dishes, so I'm guessing seeing him do them, without being asked, added to the enticement.) I have kept this in the back of my head as something to aspire to. I admit I've wondered what it would be like if he and I were a normal couple. Would I acclimate to how attractive I find him? What if I didn't? Could my, or any human's, body regularly endure the heart-skipping and pulse-racing seeing him up close demands? 
> 
> Maybe God had no choice but to make him a celibate priest. He did it to save lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had my doubts about writing serially, but I'm so glad I tried it out. Especially because we're living how we are. Writing is solitary enough on a regular day; at least doing something this way involves interaction. It's challenging, though! Difficult to make things as good as you'd want them to be, especially when you're a chronic re-writer and are itching to go back and fix things you've already shared. (You all obviously know this already.) Best wishes from my bubble to yours.....

When it falls apart, it is not in any way I could have predicted. I took one Chemistry course in school, and I remember very little, but I vaguely recall something about molecules that need to collide in order to split apart. Then something about how the collision is determined by how fast the molecules go, how hard they hit. 

My point is: we're those molecules. We will spend the next year colliding.

Having now exhausted all of my Chemistry knowledge, I will put this metaphor to rest. 

\---

The lights dim, the plane is descending. Experience has taught us to have our real goodbye before we reach London. "Ready?" he says, voice already wobbling. He takes a deep breath like a 3-2-1 countdown is coming, and we're on a rocky overlook about to dive into the water. Instead, we dive into each other; lips to wet eyelids, lips to wet cheeks, noses snuffling into the folds of necks. We separate in stages, like we're dipping our limbs into that hot pool, only the opposite: this is us getting used to the cold. Last kiss; wait; let go of hair; wait; unclasp arms; wait. We are nearly apart, sitting awkwardly, the crown of my head pressing into his chest, the lethargic headbutt of a bull who has lost the will to prey. His hands brace my upper back; mine hold onto his thighs. I can hear his heart beat and I can smell his smell.

What comes into my head is far from an epiphany, neither deep nor insightful. It's a basic fact. I don't want to leave. I never want to leave. I don't want to leave this moment. I didn't want to get out of that thermal bath. I could have stayed in that dark treehouse bed forever, or on top of that hill in The Highlands, or in our giant Edinburgh hotel bed. Wherever we are, I don't want to leave and I'm certain he doesn’t either. But he will, because he always does.

These thoughts don't spur me into action. I'll only let them up for a gulp of air before I quash them. But they do spoil the moment. I jerk my head away from him. What had felt tender and mournful now strikes me as absurd and overwrought. It is one thing to act like a teenager who's flirting with a boy at a pool. That's fun. This angsty bellyaching is not. "Two drama queens," I scoff. 

"A couple of moaners," he sighs, then turns away. He does his own thing to switch gears. His hands clasp in a position that's half-prayer, half-fist. He makes that cute puffer-fish face he does when he's holding tension in his cheeks, staring straight ahead. He closes his eyes, then let's the air out. The plane touches ground. "We'll be okay," he says. It's meant as encouragement, but I hear it as a consolation. Like when he says okay he means as in middling, as in meh, neither good nor bad, more or less. Okay is all we'll ever get to be. A reminder not to hope for more.

We're on the tube. We'd purposefully ignored our phones while we were away, now we purposefully lose ourselves in them. His stop approaches, he tugs at my sleeve. I can feel him waiting for me to look at him. I don't have it in me to oblige. "Right, well," he leans in, "love you." It takes me a moment to process. My head shoots up. He is halfway toward the door, but he's looking back, unapologetic impish eyes daring me to react. He can tell he's thrown me for a loop. That was his point. He shrugs, so casual it's cheeky, as if to say, "Hey, just telling it like it is," and then he's gone.

I know I said I'd put the Chemistry metaphor to rest, but I also remember something about particles acting erratic. Or maybe that's Physics. Whatever. Just: he's the erratic particle here. 

Do you know when the last time he told me he loved me was? At the bus stop, the night of my father's wedding. It's been a rule, not official but unspoken, that we don't say it. We know we feel it, it's not a question of that, but it has remained out of bounds and off-limits. It's self-preservation. It's one thing to tell someone you love them when you get to show it to them. For us, "I love you" is the kick in the head reminder of what we aren't allowed to have.

What really sinks me is how he didn’t say the “I.” He said “Love you!” in that flip, habitual way people who’ve been together forever do. Like it’s obvious; like how Boo and I used to say it about one million times a day; how Mum and I would....For a normal couple, this might indicate progress, a step toward something more. For us, his "Love you" is foreboding.

I want to text him: What the fuck? But we're back in our real lives, so there isn't really a point. I let it go.

\---

I get home, shower, change, and go straight to work. Having been through these transitions before, I've had the foresight to overschedule the next weeks so I won't have time to sleep or breathe or, most important, think. Work on the addition has stalled, and I've got that to deal with; the back room is fully booked; there is event planning and trouble-shooting: we've got staffing issues to sort out; hires to make. My plan is to work all hours, barely come home, sleep on the sofa in my office as much as possible. Without the commute -- my early morning walks, my tube time -- my mind will have less opportunity to wander. 

It all goes according to plan. A month passes. I'm looking at paint chips with the contractor, okaying the order for gallons of expensive, absurdly named paint. We're doing Sulking Room Pink for the dining area and Elephant's Breath for my office -- I admit I have chosen that shade solely because of the name. The contractor and I chat for a bit. I joke that if I were ever to own a house, I'd want to have an actual sulking room to paint Sulking Room Pink. My contractor says that, speaking of which, he has just seen a residential property, a small row house that's a total tip but has potential. The buyers have pulled out. Might I want to see it? I tell him I'm fine in my flat and up to my ears with everything else -- can't take on one more thing.

That evening, I get home before 10PM, the first time since our return I've been in this early. I'm greeted by piles of post and my travel bag, still unpacked, in the entryway where I left it. I unzip it and find, folded neatly on top, the blue top of his that I'd intended, but hadn't gotten the chance, to nick. At some point during our calamitous last morning, he must have put it there. 

I text my contractor to say I've had a change of heart, I would like to look at the property after all. I see it the next morning. I love it. I could say I love it in spite of the fact that it will need a gut renovation, top to bottom. But I think I love it because of that. I’m going to be even busier. 

\---

Usually I don't answer the phone, but I'm at the estate agent's office, having forgotten to turn my ringer off, and so I answer it just to stop it from ringing. “What the fuck?" someone says so loudly the estate agent’s eyebrows raise. She is a woman in her mid-60s, a waxed coat and Belgian loafers type, who I like a lot. She looks like she might have been friends with my mum. I apologise, and step outside. It's Tamsin. “What the fuck?” she repeats. “You don’t answer calls or reply to texts. I haven't seen you in forever. I think I've forgotten what you look like."

"Giant nose, gawky frame," I remind her.

"Oh yeah, now I remember," she says, then has a go at me. Apparently, I haven't replied to her evite, or its 8 thousand follow up reminders to RSVP. There's a wrap party for a documentary she's worked on, and it's tonight. It's her biggest job to date, they think she might be nominated for a BAFTA. I gush appropriately, say we are going to have to celebrate, but maybe not tonight, I'm so sorry but I'm just knackered. Tamsin is someone who is not easily ruffled, but she sounds miffed. "No. No way. You are not buggering off. You don't even know that I'm--."

"Don't even know that you're what?"

"Nope," she says. "You have to come."

"Okay," I concede. "But I may be a bit late." 

I prove my reliability, at least about being late. It's a restaurant favoured by media people, with high red leather boots and well-heeled patrons. The vibe is jolly, if not a bit clubby. The queue for the bar is massive. I join it, and scan the crowd for Tamsin, because if she doesn't see my face she won't believe I've shown. I don't see her anywhere, there are a bunch of old school friends, some of whom I vaguely recognise but whose names I can't place. 

This is a Tamsin, not a Niamh, event. Still, it has crossed my mind that he might be here. In the past, when there have been events involving our mutual friends, out of courtesy, one of us has texted the other. This way, we can avoid each other, at the very least spare ourselves an injurious surprise. I did think about texting this afternoon, but kept getting pulled away for one thing or the other, then I figured if he were going, he'd have texted me.

I'm staring across the room at a guy. He looks familiar. How I might know him eludes me. I don't hear the bartender ask what I'd like. "Oh, sorry," I say, "I'll have a tequila."

"I'll have a tequila," someone echoes. 

Oh.

"Make them doubles," I tell the bartender. (I've always wanted to say that.)

\-----

Concentrated and intimate as they have been, the times we've spent together have done nothing to habituate me to the sight of him. He is so fucking beautiful. He has just had a haircut. It's all I can do not to throw my arms around him just so that I can get to the back of his neck, skim my fingertips along the soft puppy fur at the base of his skull. He is standing before me, and I am already yearning for the parts of him I can't see.

My mum used to say that sometimes she'd walk into the kitchen, see my dad doing the dishes, and feel just as bowled over as she did the first time she saw him. (They used to fight about whose turn it was to do the dishes, so I'm guessing seeing him do them, without being asked, added to enticement.) I have kept this in the back of my head as something to aspire to. I admit I've wondered what it would be like if he and I were a normal couple. Would I acclimate to how attractive I find him? What if I didn't? Could my, or any human's, body regularly endure the heart-skipping and pulse-racing seeing him up close demands? 

Maybe God had no choice but to make him a celibate priest. He did it to save lives.

It's vexing that my brain is going where it's going at this moment. I throw back my tequila to knock some sense into it.

"Don't stop on my account," he says. Is he reading my mind? Did I just say something out loud I didn't intend to? Does he mean drinking? I'm confused. 

"Checking out that guy." He nods his chin toward the guy I thought looked familiar. "I saw you. Do you fancy him?" He steps closer to me as he says this. 

"Fuck you. No. I think I used to know him from school."

"I met him earlier. Finance guy. Solid option." We are standing sideways, facing each other, leaning against the bar, elbows propped. He moves his elbow ever so slightly to graze mine. 

The heat of his touch meets the heat of tequila, and my chest swells, I emit a tiny involuntary noise, almost as if I've chirped. He smiles, presses in, so that now our elbows kiss. He is having fun, and I can't help but join. "Oh so you're my wingman now, are you? Tell me more. Did you catch his name?"

"No, but he says you two dated in Year 11." Ah. That's who that is. His name is Ralph Goldsmith, and he's not a bad memory, but not a memorable memory either. "He saw you before I did. Got a bit excited, I should warn you. Said he hadn't seen you since -- well, something about prom and a football pitch."

"Wait, what?"

"Don't worry. He didn't say anything more than that. I obviously wouldn't have--." He cuts himself off, grinds his fist into his palm, losing himself in the fantasy of publicly defending my honour, then laughs at himself. "Good thing it didn't come to that, huh? I don't have your right hook." 

We stay still, sinking into the memory of the first night we met. I'm the one to lean in closer this time. "Actually," I say. "It was a rugby pitch." He looks confused. "I snogged him on a rugby pitch. You said football pitch."

"My apologies," he says, then lowers his voice. "Why didn't you text?" 

I tell him I how I found out about the party only this afternoon, and got busy. It's mostly gentle, but I hear a bit of defensiveness in my tone. "Why didn't you?" I counter.

He quiets, thinking, then does that jittery darting eye thing he does as an uncomfortable truth rises to the surface. "Because then you wouldn't have come." He says it like it stings. "You got here so late. I thought I was in the clear. That I wouldn't have to--. Fuck, I don't mean --. You know what I mean."

I think I do. I've had these convoluted notions: the desire to test fate without repercussion, to get to see him without invoking any of my own agency. Certainly back in the early days, when I was trying to stick to the ban, but would occasionally slink past his church. I never once saw him, which was always a disappointment, yet also a relief, because I wouldn't feel morally compromised or get in trouble for it. Crime without consequence.

He couldn't find it in himself to make it so we wouldn't see each other, but that doesn't mean he thinks we should be seeing each other. 

Only minutes ago, he seemed boisterous. Now he looks disturbed. This isn't the first time I've seen his manic side. There's nothing new being revealed. Actually, what's happening feels old. It's that guilt. He's undone, and I'm who has undone him. The only way to help him is to do what I never want to do: leave. "I wasn't going to stay long anyway," I say. "It's late." 

The lights go dark. A spotlight shines on a woman behind a makeshift podium across the pub; she's the documentary's producer. People are clapping. They jostle to get closer. We hang back. The producer calls her team up to join her. Finally, I lay eyes on Tamsin. It takes me a moment to absorb what I'm seeing. 

What the fuck? Is she pregnant?

I file that information away for later. I'll call her tomorrow. I scan the room for the best route to the exit, put on my coat, grab my bag. I'm not sure what to say. "See you soon?" Can't assume. "Talk to you soon?" Can't assume that either. "Take care?" Sounds final in a way I wouldn't want it to. "Text me?" Pathetic. I think about the last time we parted and his way-too-flip "Love you!" Maybe now's the time to get him back. But of course, I won't. "Okay," is all I manage. 

As soon as I take a step, his hand flies at my waist, and he catches me by my coat's belt to tug me back to him. He's so swift, I don't even feel him doing it. When I step away, the belt has been undone. 

We don't discuss why we don't go back to my flat. I think we both feel it's too risky; that we're too far gone to go somewhere that might feel the smallest bit domestic; it'll be too loaded, too sad. We remain in our comfort zone, and go to a hotel. We're in Central London -- we have our choice. He makes a production of booking a room on his phone, but he does it so quickly, I think he must have sorted it beforehand. One swipe and a room is ours. 

He never says, and I won't find out until much, much later: It's his birthday.

\--

I have a very revealing secret that should maybe make me feel pathetic but, for reasons I can't explain, doesn't: I buy him presents. Maybe it's because Boo and I used to give each other presents all the time, and I miss that. Or because it's fun. It truly is fun. Everyone needs a hobby. I've been doing it since Edinburgh, even during the periods when I've been dating other people, or brokering negotiations with my ex-boyfriend/business partner to maybe start up again. It's clothes mostly, whatever catches my eye that I think he'd look amazing in, which is just about everything. I have never given him a single one -- it's the sort of gesture that might scare him off. It might be too much. And so, I've got a cupboard heaving with jumpers and scarves, pyjamas, gloves, most wrapped in tissue, some in Christmas wrapping. One is even in a mailer, addressed to him, with postage and everything.

My new house is far from finished, there is barely a kitchen. But there's a bedroom, a working toilet, and a newly re-done roof. That's good enough for me. I'm moving before the new year. When the man from the removal company comes to my flat to give an estimate, he opens the cupboard and asks if I'll be bringing all the contents as well. I sense that this is an opportunity to get rid of the ungiven presents and what they might represent, but don't take it. They will come with me. There's a gorgeous oxblood satchel I could maybe re-gift to my dad, though maybe I should just keep it for myself.

Speaking of my family, Claire isn't coming home for Christmas this year. Being Claire, she gives me a ton of advance notice. I get off the phone with her, and promptly called our lunch chef to come up with a holiday menu. Now we're booked solid on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and Boxing Day. I would have booked New Year's too, were it not for the move. As it is, it's going to be a lot of work, but it will pay for the window replacements my new house needs. Most important, it will make it impossible to attend any of the festivities my godmother is organising. I do feel bad for my dad. Then again, he's chosen this. Perhaps I'll give him the oxblood satchel after all.

\----

It's only Christmas Day, and I am full of regret. I have a giant blister on my heel. Something's wrong with the bread sauce. We've run out of brandy for the Christmas cake. My head hurts -- I think I'm coming down with something. Our pastry person called in sick. I wasn't counting on my ex-boyfriend /business partner to do half -- this was my thing. But I wasn't expecting him to be out of town either. He started seeing our interior designer last month. It has gotten super serious superfast, and he's gone to Devon to spend Christmas with her family.

Our prix fixe menu is as inexpensive as it can be, but more expensive than I'd like it to be, which means the clientele is not our usual eclectic mix. It's older, toffee-nosed, and cranky. I'd almost expect Godmother to turn up, except I know from her excessively-updated Instagram story, she and Dad are out and about. Already this morning I've watched her drag Dad to M & S for last minute provisions, and hang phallus ornaments on the tree. Yes, you read that right.

Obviously, I'm hate-watching at this point but so be it. Claire is doing the same in Finland where's she's upstairs also watching kids shows on youtube with the twins and hiding from her in-laws. It's a way for us to bond.

Oh shit, do you see where they are now? Claire texts. I tell her we're about to open. I see through the glass doors that a bunch of tweedy types are already milling outside. Look! Claire demands.

Godmother has turned the camera on herself. Her cheeks are flushed, she has a massive scarf wrapped around her neck. It looks like a cross between shrubbery and bunting. She's bragging about how elegant, how riveting, how spiritually enlightening morning mass has been. Morning mass? Oh shit. Now I see where they are. Those stone walls, that courtyard. And there, oh there, he is. It has been a long time since I have seen him in one of his work get ups, and this one is particularly resplendent. I feel a flash of something akin to fury -- like I've just caught him cheating. "Father!!!!!" she calls out. 

The afternoon is brutal, but, throughout the day, when I flash back to the aghast look on his face, I will smile.

\---

My phone is ringing, but I don't know where it is. I was so deeply asleep, I'm not even sure where I am. 

I remember how, when I was a kid, and I had a really crap day at school, I'd be able to keep it together for as long as I needed to, but then the second I saw my mum, I'd lose it. I'd see her at the gates, and my lip would start quivering, and I'd pull her by the elbow to get away as fast as possible, so I could be far enough from school to safely burst into tears.

I haven't thought about how I'm lying in the dark on a sofa in my office in an empty restaurant, and that it's Christmas; that my throat hurts and I think I'm running a fever, that I have 4 hours until I have to wake up to prep for Boxing Day; that I got into an ugly argument with a sous chef, and I'm not sure he's even going to show up tomorrow; that, in 2 days, I'm moving house. That I'm alone. 

I haven't thought about any of that, but then I hear his voice. All he says is "Happy Christmas," and I'm in floods. "You didn't reply to my text," he says. "I was concerned." I scroll through my messages. There are so many, I'd missed his. He'd had someone take a picture of him, my dad, and godmother. I laugh, but I'm crying so hard, it feels like I'm choking.

5 minutes later, I'm unlocking the door to let him in. 10 minutes later, he's brewing tea, to which he'll add whisky, his grandfather's cure-all. An hour later, I'm back on the sofa, asleep with my head in his lap. He stays through the night, and backs me up on Boxing Day. Lest there be some parishioners among the diners, he sticks to the kitchen, and covers for the sous chef. 

A day later, after 12 straight hours of sleep, we wake up on a mattress on the floor of my flat, amidst half-packed cartons of my belongings. "I haven't even given you your present," he says. He has never given me a present before. He shrugs. "I know," he says in a quieter voice. We haven't made any verbal declarations about the rules no longer applying, though I don't know why we'd need to. Nor have we discussed what this means for our once-a-year jaunts, though I'm assuming what I assumed on the final day of the last one: they're off. We are both feeling the uncomfortable scratch of these thoughts. "Shit," he says, rolling onto his back and away from me. "I don't have to give it to you. I haven't even asked you if you're seeing anyone. If you've met someone," he cringes. 

"I'm not," I say. "I haven't." I leave out that I haven't gone on a single date since the summer. My one rule. He nods. It's melancholy.

"Hey!" I say loudly, because I can't bear the mood, and also there's a present! I reach for him with greedy fingers. "Gimme, gimme!"

He grins. "Okay."

It's a necklace, a gold chain with a tiny gold coin charm. It's a an old Scottish coin he found on e-bay. There's a picture of the castle imprinted on it, the view from our Edinburgh hotel. I couldn't love it more. He lifts my hair to put it on me, makes sure the clasp is tight, then kisses the back of my neck. His hands start to roam, but before he can get any farther, I interrupt. "Yours is in there," I say, and point across the room to the cupboard. He shakes his head. "Yeah, well, you weren't supposed to get me anything either." He slips on his jeans, and goes.

He opens the door. "Wait, is this like a gift cupboard? My gran used to have one of those. If she was going to a party, or whatever, she always had something on hand to bring. Most of it was rubbish, though, not like --." He holds up a cashmere jumper. It's thick and navy blue. I love that one. He puts it back, inspects a pair of leather gloves. He looks confounded. I remain silent, don't help him out. Next he pulls out the mailer, sees that it's addressed to him. I think he's starting to understand. He turns to me for confirmation.

"Yeah," I say, "they're all for you." 

You'd think I'd be embarrassed. I'd think I'd be embarrassed. Mortified. But I'm not, I'm relieved. All those tokens of my affection, unopened; all that love, unexpressed. 

I can't hold it in any longer, I don't want to. 

\---

By New Year's Day, he has gone back to work, and life has recommenced. Tamsin is in her second trimester. They're having a girl. My ex-boyfriend/business partner is back from Devon. He and our interior designer are engaged. I've moved into my new house. There are more rooms than I've ever had. I don't know what I'll do with them. I don't actually think I'd like a sulking room.

Things have changed, and things are shifting. Molecules collide to break apart. A week later, I meet someone.


	6. Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She was such a good mum," I say.
> 
> He pulls me into him, kisses my temple, stubble scraping my cheek. He takes my hands, balls them with his, and presses them to our hearts. "Yeah, she'd have to have been," he says, and it's uncanny because, when he says this, he looks at me with this inexhaustible, do-anything love, and it's just how she used to look at me. I'd swear for a moment her spirit had just passed through him, that inside his eyes, I see hers too. 
> 
> We stay like this for several seconds. It is sweet and comforting, and then it is, well, us. We're in a god damn graveyard, and we're not hot bumpy headed vamps in an episode of Buffy, though he is wearing those combat boots. "Fuck, sorry," he says, because somehow, so, so, quickly, his hands have found their way into the back pockets of my jeans.
> 
> "We shouldn't stop on Mum's account," I say. "She'd think it was a riot. But that family over there burying their gran might not be so amused."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commence happy ending. ❤️🛫✈️🛬❤️ 🏃🏻🏃🏻🏃🏻

George does set design on Niamh's kids show, though that's just for cash. He's really a painter. He shows his work at some of the same galleries as my godmother. He has never heard of her and when I describe her art for him, he says it doesn't sound like his thing. I mention that my mother taught at the college he went to, though before he got there. He recognises her name, says her art is in the gallery's permanent collection, and it's spectacular. 

Our first date is on a Friday, the museums are open late. We wander around the exhibits, watch the ice skaters in front of the Natural History Museum, walk and talk. He has recently ended a long relationship, he tells me. "We just weren't having fun anymore," he explains.

When it's my turn, I am vague. I mention Harry, and my ex-boyfriend/business partner; then oh so casually reference a man with whom I've been on again/off again for years. We pass a shop that sells gelato. "Ooh, let's get some!" I say to change the subject. I take his hand and pull.

On Valentine's Day, my ex-boyfriend/business partner gets married in Devon. George is a lovely date, and he is very understanding. He assumes that because this is my ex's wedding, I'm ... "less present" is how he puts it. Of course, that's not it. The key-card, the fluffy white robes, the pot of coffee that comes in the morning. Being away with someone else is one bad feeling after the next: I feel like I'm cheating; I feel dumb to feel that way; I miss him; I feel guilty for being a jerk to the man who's actually here; I miss him. After the wedding, George asks if I'd like him to book us massages. "Not really a spa person," I say. 

Winter is wetter and colder than usual -- we have real snow. Claire gives birth to her third child, a boy. She's up at all hours. We speak early in the morning, when I'm walking to work. "Trying to enjoy it, since this is the last time I'll be doing this," she remarks, sounding too shattered to enjoy much of anything. 

"Not sure I believe you," I say. She said she was done after the twins, too. 

"Yeah, well, you should. Even if I wanted more... It's not like I have much time left. Probably a year tops. Oh hold on, have to switch sides." I hear some rustling, and the sweet snuffles of a baby eager to feed. They remind me of Hilary when she snored. "Got to go," I say, "I just got to work."

My new house is coming along. George helps me paint the spare room. He doesn't believe in those over-priced paints with posh names, and mixes a lilac-grey that's gorgeous though, in the evening light, can remind me of a bruise. 

\----

It's almost Spring, but Winter isn't leaving without a fight. Every day feels like a tug-of-war between the two; sunny, one moment, spitting cold rain, the next. It has been 3 months since we've communicated, and part of me wonders whether this is it. This is us sputtering out, soon we will each let the other go. I'm not eager to have some big talk. What is there to talk about, really? 

It's the memorial of my mother's death. Because of the new baby, Claire can't come to visit the grave with me. I know I could ask George, or go with my dad, but then my godmother would insist on coming. It's okay, I don't mind going alone. Last year, when I got to the grave, someone had already been there, and left a tiny purple bouquet. When I looked up close, I saw it was bell heather. That hill in the Highlands was coated in bell heather. I kept saying how bad I felt to be stepping on it.

This year someone has left wildflowers that are just like the wildflowers at the foothills of the Alps. They smell like them too. They're tied with a thick blue ribbon that I recognise -- part of the wrapping from a Christmas present I'd given him. It doesn't take long to spot him. He's a couple of graves down, just standing there. It's fucking creepy, and if it weren't such a solemn day, and he weren't so generous and kind, I'd give him shit for being such a ghoul, loitering in cemeteries. I think my mum would enjoy hearing me take the piss out of him. I should do it in her honour. Except I know what he's up to: He's waiting to see if I've got a man, or really anyone else, with me. I give him a nod, and soon he's by my side, saying nothing, holding my hand while I cry. 

"You can say a prayer if you want," I whisper. 

"Only if you need me to. I did a bunch before you got here. Thought I should spare you." I don't tell him that Mum wasn't exactly a fan of organised religion either, and he maybe should have spared her too. Except, oh, how she must have loved just listening to his voice. 

"She was such a good mum," I say.

He pulls me into him, kisses my temple, stubble scraping my cheek. He takes my hands, balls them with his, and presses them to our hearts. "Yeah, she'd have to have been," he says, and it's uncanny because, when he says this, he looks at me with this inexhaustible, do-anything love, and it's just how she used to look at me. I'd swear for a moment her spirit had just passed through him, that inside his eyes, I see hers too. 

We stay like this for several seconds. It is sweet and comforting, and then it is, well, us. We're in a god damn graveyard, and we're not hot bumpy headed vamps in an episode of Buffy, though he is wearing those combat boots. "Fuck, sorry," he says, because somehow, so, so, quickly, his hands have found their way into the back pockets of my jeans.

"We shouldn't stop on Mum's account," I say. "She'd think it was a riot. But that family over there burying their gran might not be so amused."

"Can't say we haven't done worse," he sighs. He means the confessional. This does have a déjà vu feel. We peel apart until we're only holding hands. He's wearing one of the jumpers I gave him for Christmas. I can see the black cuff of his priest shirt peeking out from his right sleeve. I wonder where he's got his collar stashed. 

\----

Soon it's Spring, real Spring. Tulips-and-tourists-and-rowboats-in-the-park-Spring. It's a Saturday, I am meeting Tamsin, Niamh and the baby in Regent's Park. When I arrive at our meeting point, only Tamsin and the baby are there. Tamsin is drinking a coffee and looking harassed, the baby is conked out in her pram. She is a gorgeous, all cuddly and hot-cheeked in a sleepsuit; a tiny mouse inside a ball of cotton wool. "Hush," Tamsin hisses as soon as she sees me, terrified that I won't be able to contain myself and will reach into the pram and just grab a handful of baby pudge. It's true, I'm tempted. "We're on borrowed time," Tamsin warns. "Maybe if we walk, she'll sleep a little longer." 

"Where's Niamh?" I say in the most exaggerated whisper, basically just moving my lips. Tamsin elbows me -- hard. 

"She's visiting a friend who just got out of the hospital. A guy, you know the one. From her group of school friends. They call him The Priest, though I can't for the life of me remember his actual name. Fuck, what is it? Now I'm thinking maybe I never even knew it."

I try my hardest to keep my composure. It is not easy. "Why was he in the hospital?" I am careful to keep my voice steady.

"Oh, nothing too serious. You know that old French kids book? Twelve little girls in two little lines? There was that hot nun teacher...."

What the fuck is she going on about? "Madeline? Madeline had appendicitis. He had his appendix out?"

"Yes! That. Sorry, I'm sleep deprived. I'm not very good with words these days. Oh, fuck." The baby has roused. "I'm going to need to change her. Wait here."

I plop down on the bench, grateful to the baby for somehow intuiting my needs. I text: WTF? I just heard. Are you okay???? I am relieved to see his text bubble fill with dots. He says he's okay, he'll ring me when everyone leaves.

I'm walking home when he calls. He sounds rough. "So fucking embarrassing," he says. "I feel like I should have been on the paediatric floor. I mean, doesn't this only happen to 8-year-olds?" When Tamsin was doing another nappy change, I did a quick Google search. Apparently, appendicitis also happens to over-consumers of alcohol, and I hope that doesn't account for too many 8-year-olds. He doesn't need to hear that now. Instead, I tell him I'll be right there. "No, no, no, no, no," he says. 

"Niamh was just there!" I huff. "And whoever else!"

"Pam's here. She can get me what I need."

"Yeah, but, wouldn't you rather it was me?" It's not my intention to act pouty. It's just: he has been in the hospital. Who cares what Pam thinks? If there were ever a time to ignore our stupid rules or any rules... I know now isn't the time for me to whinge, or get angry, or feel anything other than concern for him. But it hurts. I exit the park into a splotch of sun, and shield my eyes. Children are whooping. Everywhere, there's that animals-out-of-their-cages-joy. I picture him, aching, in that dark musty church. 

"Yes, of course, I'd rather it were you," he says. "But it can't be."

That evening, when I have a free moment, I go on my grocery store app and order him some of his favourite items. I make sure my name won't be listed as sender.

That way, only he will know.

\---

I don't give a lot of thought, or credence, to age, mine or anyone else's. Obviously. Someone who whittles their 30s away pursuing pleasure, then pursuing a Catholic priest, and then pursuing pleasure with a Catholic priest.... They aren't exactly overly concerned with their future plans. 

It's my birthday. Claire is the first to call. I'm in bed, and she has, of course, long been up. She's got the whole family bopping in and out. It's very loud. They sing Happy Birthday in English and Finnish. The twins blow kisses. She has the baby in her arms. I can't figure out what it is -- his eyes, the shape of his mouth, or all of it -- but he looks so much like our mum.

That night, George inaugurates my new, or at least mostly operational, kitchen, and makes dinner. The whole house smells like sweet garlic and rosemary. Tamsin and Niamh come. They have an infant at home, and now Niamh's pregnant. "You two are going to have your hands full," George says, plating slices of cake. It's chocolate with a peanut butter frosting. Niamh says that, yeah, well, they thought it would take longer, but it worked on the first go. 

"How long does it usually take?" I ask. 

"Took me six rounds," Tamsin says, "but it's not like I did it monthly. It's hard to get appointments. So, about a year of trying? Almost 2 years start to finish. Holy crap, this cake is amazing."

When they leave, George gives me a present. It's an abstract painting, a blur of white and silver swooshes on a glossy black background inspired by the ice skaters we saw on our first date. I hang it in the bedroom, lie on my side and stare. I try to see the skaters, but all I see is paint. 

\---

George doesn't sleep over. We both have things early tomorrow morning. Just before midnight, just before I'm about to put the phone in silent mode, it rings. "I didn't think you'd pick up," he says.

"Why'd you call then?" It's noisy where he is. He swears a bunch, apologises, then begs me to hold on. Pub sounds become street sounds. 

"Because I wanted to wish you a happy birthday." 

"How'd you know?"

"I know when your birthday is," he scoffs. He actually sounds offended. "But also, I had lunch with Niamh, she mentioned her plans for the night."

"Ah." I know he and Niamh wouldn't have talked-talked about this; probably she just mentioned her plans in passing. By the sound of his voice, I'm thinking she also mentioned George in passing. 

"Are you free to chat? I can call you over the weekend if not." He is worried George is here, and I don't feel like easing that worry, but also: I want to hear what he has to say.

"For a bit." 

There's a siren where he is. He waits for it to be over, then blurts: "I'm so fucking sorry, okay?"

"What are you sorry for?" I sound like a mum who needs to make sure their kid understands that being sorry the toilet is broken is not the point; being sorry they did so by cruelly shoving their sister's Lego Family down it is.

"When you offered to take care of me after the hospital. You were trying to be kind."

"Not trying," I correct him. Is this what happens when you have a milestone birthday? You go to sleep a regular person, and wake up a fearless, though maybe passive aggressive, mum, even when you aren't one? If so, I'm loving it.

"Sorry. You were kind, and I was on these fucking pain meds, because far be it from me to turn down anything that's offered, and they just took me to a dark place fast. And then Pam was hovering, making me fucking crazy, and I snapped. I fucking made her cry. It was shit. I was shit. I was trying to undo the damage from that, people were visiting, and I should have waited to call you, but showed absolutely no fucking restraint. Anyway, a bunch of excuses. But I'm sorry, okay?"

"Okay."

"Yeah? You sure?" 

"I just wish you could have let me take care of you."

"I know," he says in this defeated way, and I'm not sure if what he means is that he knows that's what I wish, or that he also wishes he could have let me take care of him, that he was capable of such a thing. He changes direction, sounds chipper when he next speaks. "Can you spare a minute more?" he asks. "Because, it's almost summer, and...." 

Oh fuck.

"We don't need to have this conversation," I snap. How drunk is he? Did they take out something else with his appendix? His heart maybe? "A minute more" to have this conversation???? On my fucking birthday??!! 

"No, no, no, no, no. No conversation. I've got a proposal for you."

Wrong choice of words. Since I'm already riled up, I can't help but give him shit for it. "Okay, but it better come with a diamond and only if it's pear-shaped. And only if you get down on your knees and ask properly." While I intended for that to sound unabashed and discomfiting, I did not intend for it to be smutty, or as smutty. It takes us a moment to recover as we finish thinking what we're thinking. 

"Listen, they've got me doing another goddamn guidebook. Eastern Europe. I have to go to Prague in July -- it's only two nights, so it'd be quick, not our usual....." He trails off. "This can be us, you know, well. Just. Maybe it'll be easier to not just go cold turkey. You know?" This is the closest either of us has come to speaking this out loud. He barrels through the awkwardness. "I'll get you a ticket, if you want. Please. It'll be fun. Just consider it. Hey, I need make the last bus, and I know you need to get back to whatever you need to get back to." 

He doesn't even pretend to care that by going with him, I'll be cheating on the man he believes is in my house with me. All bets are off. He's gone rogue. I guess it really is the end.

"I'll text you the dates, and you can let me know, okay?"

"Sure."

"Good," he says, signing off. "Okay, love y--." 

Oh no way. "Uh, uh," I scold. "Don't you dare!" I slide the phone to off, and I hear him laugh. The nerve. It's infectious, though. And when I tuck myself back into bed, I'm laughing too.  
.  
\--

George is at my house. It's a Sunday afternoon, we're drinking wine, and painting the trim on the doors to the back garden. I'm terrible at it, and the wine isn't helping, I keep splodging up the windows. We are having the most serious conversation we've ever had, which isn't as monumental as it sounds. We've enjoyed each other's company, George and I, but have mostly been keeping it light. This is the first we've talked about his family. They don't sound great, he sounds bitter.

For someone who was so well mothered, I seem to have a thing for men who weren't. "Honestly, I don't know why anyone does it," George snarls. "I mean, I know why they say they do it, but I just don't get it." 

He has lost me. Maybe it's the wine. "It?" I say.

"Procreation, having kids," he says. Funny that, though there's a slice to his words, he paints with perfect calm and precision. I just splattered black paint all over the wood floor.

"Really? You can't ever imagine having kids?" I ask, bending down to wipe it up.

"Nope, no desire to be a parent whatsoever. Honestly, I think it's the only thing in life I am sure about." 

I also seem to have a thing for men who reject fatherhood. This guy wants to be a father of none. And then there's my Father of Many who also wants to be a father of none.

That night, lying in bed, my back pressing against George's, I think about his proclamation. I'm less intrigued with what he has said than the surety with which he has said it. I think I too feel that surety, only the other way around. Claire has often warned me that not thinking about whether I want to be a mum will, if I wait too long, be the equivalent of choosing not to be a mum -- at least, if the way I choose to do so involves my own body (And that's only if my body is agreeable to the option; Claire often likes to remind me that I cannot assume it will be.) 

I have ignored her, because, well, she's Claire. But I think, maybe, quite possibly, with no influence from my sister or anyone else, I have just made a choice. In the morning, when I wake up, I call the clinic Tamsin and Niamh use and put my name on the waiting list.

George is going away this summer to do a residency at an artists' retreat. We'll hang out off and on until he departs, after which point we'll let each other go.

\-----

July comes. We are leaving for Prague tomorrow. I didn't think we'd ever do this again. I am excited, though scared for what will come after; it's hard to feel one without the other. I am packing my bag, and would be finished by now if he didn't keep texting me with clothing questions like how fancy I think the restaurant where we have reservations will be, and whether the spa I've booked has a pool. He's acting like we're off to Milan for fashion week. It's delightful. The phone sounds, and I grin, because what now???

It isn't him. 

When the clinic added my name to the waiting list, they told me they wouldn't be able to fit me in until Autumn. They're texting to inform me that there is a last-minute cancellation and it's the day after tomorrow. If I could please, as soon as possible, let them know if I would like the spot. If not, they will offer it to someone else. 

I text them back straight away.

\---

6 and a half months pass. We haven't had any contact. This is the longest we've gone since that first time round. I think about him all the time, but I am really thinking about him now. I'm on a plane to Dublin.

Niamh had her baby, another girl, and they're christening the sisters together. When the invitation arrived, I feared it'd say the location was his church in London. But it's at the church Niamh grew up going to. It's possible it's the church he grew up going to as well, but I don't think he ever told me the name

I don't regret cancelling Prague, though I have worried that perhaps I could have handled it better, been a little less punishing. In keeping with that one original rule, I said only: Sorry, have to cancel. In retrospect, it sounds a bit harsh. I might have said more; explained that I wasn't cancelling for love -- at least not the love of another man, as no doubt he believes is the case. But what difference would that have made? Nothing was going to change. 

His reply was even shorter. I know how absurd it sounds, that what will probably be the most epic love story of my life should end with an emoji. But it felt right at the time, perfect and poetic. It's lonely and hopeful, beautiful, unpretentious, and full of love. I know. I'm reading too much into it. I try to see it as a singular red heart, but all I see is him.

The night before the christening, there's a meet-up at a pub. If he was there, I missed him, possibly because I didn't stay long enough. Too knackered. They say the tiredness should ease up, now that I'm through the first trimester. I am 14 weeks pregnant. No one else knows, only Claire. 

He's not at the christening either. I run into Ewan on the way out. “Hiya," he says. "You coming with us tonight?” He sees my confusion. "Oh, I thought you two were friends. You are, aren't you? He said you were. Didn't he do your dad's wedding ceremony or something?"

Shit.

"His mum passed. It's sad, but it was expected. She'd been going downhill for a while. The funeral is today, though I guess by now they're at the house. I'd be there, but it's family only. Anyway, a bunch of us are going round this evening. Come along if you can. I’m sure he’d want to see you.”

My flight is in a couple of hours. The car is on the way to pick me up. Actually, it has just arrived.

\---

We're speeding down the motorway, I text him. “I’m so sorry. Sending love. I'm here if you need me." I don't expect to hear back, and when we arrive at the airport, there has been no response. I check my overnight bag, queue for security. I've just placed my shoes in the grey plastic tub. I hear my phone. 

Will you come?

I stare at the words, step out of line, motion for the people behind me to go ahead, stare at the words some more.

When? My hand is shaking.

Now. If you could. 

Ewan said it's family only.

Family only. Yes. Come. He follows with the address.

The grey tub with my shoes has traveled the conveyor belt. They're on the other side of security. Getting them back will take too much time. I don't give them another thought. I don't give anything another thought. 

I turn around and run.


	7. Quickening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So, how far along are you?" he asks. "14, 15 weeks?"
> 
> When I open my mouth, nothing comes out. Words, usually my most trustworthy companions, have deserted me. I imagine sentences shattering, and words snapping in half, as -- each letter for herself! -- they flee the scene of impending disaster. Cowards. 
> 
> "Look," he sighs, "I'm happy for you, but just don't torture me, please. Who's the father?" He readies himself for the answer, crosses his arms over his body, a knight donning a chest-piece to protect his heart

We like to think we are in charge of our lives, that every milestone we reach, accomplishment we achieve, derives from choices we have made. I am a pregnant woman running shoeless through an airport to get to the love of my life, a celibate Catholic priest. I didn't choose this. 

That night, years ago, in the confessional, I said I wanted someone to tell me what to do, but really I wanted more. I wanted to feel something so powerful, it obliterated choices altogether. 

To be the dog grabbing for the stick because, in that moment, it's all that he can see or want; the mother who wakes in the night several seconds before her child cries because she can feel it; the man who hears the lord beckon, and chucks his entire life to heed the call.

I exit the airport into daylight's chilly glare to realise I don't have my coat because I put it in the bag I checked which is on its way to London now. Acting on instincts that only just activated, I hug my arms around my midsection to keep the person forming inside me warm.

There is nothing like pregnancy to remind a person they are not in charge. We don't tell our baby's limbs to bud or our hips to widen; instincts kick in whenever they choose to do so. All that shit Meghan Markle took for holding onto her pregnant stomach. She wasn't being a show-off, she was being a mother. Love told her arms to cradle her pregnant stomach just as, three minutes ago, love quickened me through that airport. Love takes me to him now. Also: a taxi driver named Shannon.

Love obliterates the choices. Love tells me what to do. 

\-----

I open the front door to a dim entryway, the sombre hum of voices come from inside. There's a line of sensible shoes along the wall, leading me to believe this is a no-shoes house, leading me to believe I've just gotten ridiculously fucking lucky. On the taxi ride here, there were many places for my mind to go, but basically all I thought about is what explanation I'd give for not wearing shoes. I have entered with no one seeing, now I can play it off like I left them in the entryway with everyone else's. I step lightly forward to peek into a front room, neither spartan nor stately. The room's plain-ness makes its lone inhabitant appear all the more radiant, a feat I might not have thought possible. He sits perched on the arm of a hard sofa, staring at his phone screen. He sees me, and does one of his Tigger-like springs. I have missed him so much.

There is nothing appropriate, neither for a funeral or a priest, about our greeting. It recalls our bonkers reunion in The Highlands, though less R-rated this time round -- more affectionate than lustful. I'm not suggesting that's not there, it's just not taking priority now. This is: giant grins and wet-eyed stares, hard squeezy hugs, the rat-a-tat of tiny kisses; exclamations of "I can't believe you're here," followed by exclamations of "I just can't believe you're here."

"Let's not go in there yet," he says, indicating with a tiny nudge of his nose that he means the room with the voices. "Come." He takes my hand, pulls me through a dark dining room. On the table there are platters of food as maudlin in appearance as their surroundings: rubbery, wrinkled cocktail sausages; cubes of dull yellow cheese, toothpicks protruding from their centres as if they've been impaled. It's the food you might find at a child's birthday party, if the birthday party were being thrown at the orphanage where Oliver Twist had asked for more. The only thing there's a lot of is alcohol. We walk through the kitchen. It's got one of those grey and brown speckled floors designed to hide dirt, so that no matter how clean it is, it always looks dirty, The bottoms of my stockings tore when I was running, I can feel the cold tile through the holes.

Down a hallway, down a flight of stairs, he leads me to his mum's home office. It has a vibe that's decidedly less severe than the other rooms I've seen. There are shelves lined with legal books, leather-bound in deep hues of burgundy and green. Still, the room isn't warm, and it reveals little about the person who once laboured here -- there are no family photos or artwork, only framed diplomas gone yellow behind glass gone cloudy. If the interiors are any indication, it would appear that, above all else, work gave his mother pleasure -- this makes me happy for her, though all the more sad for the man who is wrapping his arms around me.

He directs me to a chair in the corner, and sits. Though nearly all my thoughts are ones of concern for him, I will admit that, when he pulls me into his lap, a different sort of thought rises above the surface of my brain's more shallow waters. It is: Can he feel how much heavier I am? Of course, this thought is bound with another: I'm going to have to tell him. I am not prepared.

Later, though; not now.

Now is for this. My arms circle his neck; his face burrows into my clavicle. (Okay, one more shallow thought. Does he notice I'm -- okay not busty, but --bustier?) I hear him breathe and I hear him cry. We don't say any words. I recall how he was at my mother's graveside, and return the favour, stay softly present, waiting until he's ready.

"You know what's crazy," he sniffs. "I didn't cry until I saw you."

I press my cheek against the top of his skull. "I have that effect on people."

"I mean, I couldn't cry until I saw you. I think I needed you in order to cry.

We are looking at each other; it's a little intense. "So, you done with me now?" I chide. "Got what you needed?"

"Yeah, off you go," he says, and squeezes me tighter. 

When it seems we really can't hide down here any longer, and his sense of obligation kicks in, I comb my fingers through his hair, attempting to return some order to it. I straighten his collar, and smooth out the wrinkles in his black shirt. "I haven't seen you in this for a long time," I say. "A long, long time." 

"I know," he says. "I try not to wear it with you. But I had to. For today. Sorry."

"It's fine. And anyway, you know I --." I stop myself from taking this in the lurid direction I'm tempted to. He actually might get offended, though the coy scrunch of his face says otherwise.

I stand, adjust my dress, smoothing out the wrinkles, while trying not to draw attention to my waist. He reaches out to help, and I step away before he can touch, hoping I've played it off as unintentional. He withdraws his hand, eyes scale my body. Usually, I'd come alive under his gaze. Now I worry. I am not showing-showing yet. I haven't popped, as they say, yet. In clothes, I can still mostly hide it. I'm wearing a simple A-line dress, billowy in all the right places. But this is him. He pays attention. He sees and he feels. 

"You look --" he says. 

Oh god. 

"You look --." He can't seem to find the word he's looking for. He squints, staring harder, nods when it finally comes to him. "You look...luminous." He's got this moony look, that combined with his attire, makes me think he might mean "luminous" in a religious way. Like I'm some sort of celestial being. If so, grief is muddling his perceptions. It's going to do that.

"Thank you," I say, thinking that I've been impatient for my pregnancy glow to kick in, and that it's odd that it should choose this moment to do so.

We head upstairs. "My apologies in advance," he whispers just before we enter.

"Not a lively bunch?'

"You could say that." 

He is not kidding. 

\-----

The bright side to his sour-faced, stick-up-their-asses relations? They leave before dinner. The brighter side? Dinner for them is at 5PM. Turns out his father hasn't been living at the house for years so he too boards the party bus out of here. It is just us, and his relief is palpable. He says he's going to change, but first he's going to shower. It is possible that he is, albeit super subtly, angling for me to accompany him, but I pretend to not catch on. I tell him I have some urgent work stuff I have to handle. It's actually true. I was supposed to be back in London at this point; I'm meant to be at the pub tonight. 

He returns, freshly scrubbed, handsome as ever, out of uniform, and smelling like something so familiar. Pregnancy has honed my ability to identify a scent; it's something of a superpower. I pull him toward me, nuzzle into his neck to get a good, deep whiff. Pear's soap, those sweet medicinal brown glycerine bars my grandmother had in every soap-dish. Of course his mother would have them. Though she was in her mid-seventies, this house feels like it belonged to someone a generation older. 

The very potent combo of grief (his) and pregnancy hormones (mine) makes it that one second my nose is to his neck and I'm conjuring memories of my deceased grandmother; the next, I've untucked his t-shirt to slink my hands up his back, and he has pulled it off. He arches me backward in one of those old-time-movie clinches. It feels as momentous and impassioned as ever. "Wait," I pant. "Wait."

"Sorry, sorry," he says, returning me upright, then bolting backward; hands held in a gesture of 'I thought I was allowed to touch.' "Do you not--?"

I find it unbearable that he might feel rejected. Like, it physically hurts. "I do, of course I do. Didn't I start it?" I grab him by the waist of his trousers to bring him back to me, my hormones and my fingers at cross purposes with my inclination to hold off, seeing as the death/life/funeral/fecundity mash up might be a wee bit more than he bargained for when he asked me to come. "It's just today was your mother's funeral. Grief and sex, kind of my field of expertise. They can be a bit combustive." A finger slips further downward than intended. We both gasp. 

"Thank you for being so considerate," he says, breathing hard, "but I would rather fucking combust than not be with you now. I've missed you. And I know I'm not allowed to say that, and that I'm a selfish bastard. Not even just a sinner, but a fucked morally bankrupt person. That I thought I could ever be a good person, let alone someone of moral fucking fortitude, a fucking priest, when this is where I..." He looks around, as if all the explanations for why he is who he is are within these walls, and I'm guessing that's true, though not in the way he thinks, not even a little bit. "I honestly don't know how I made it through Prague. I don't remember any of it. Whatever is in that guidebook -- shit, I couldn't even say. And then my mum got sick, and Lord forgive me, this is fucking horrible to admit, but I thought that having an actual tragedy to deal with might help me sort my shit out. I'd stop wallowing about losing you. All the darkness I felt, I could put it somewhere else." His voice gets smaller. "It didn't work. And now you've found someone, and here I am dragging you back in, all needy and desperate." He hangs his head, so ashamed, and then in this soft, guilty, voice, says: "But I want it. I really, really want it."

"You think I'm cheating on someone?" 

"Don't," he says. "It's not just because you cancelled Prague." He waves a finger between us. "I can feel it. There's something." 

"There isn't a man at home. If there were, I wouldn't cheat. Nor would I put you in the position of aiding and abetting my cheating. On the day of your mother's funeral. You might be a fucked morally bankrupt person, but I'm not. At least not anymore." 

"You're not in a relationship?" I see the relief on his face; either he can't or is not trying to suppress it. "Really?"

"Yeah, really." His hand has found my hip, and something flickers across his face. He reaches with his resting hand for the other hip, then stays like that, as if he's summoning tactile memories, perhaps because he feels something is askew. I gently pull his hands off, bring them to my mouth, kiss each pear soap knuckle. "Also: I wouldn't lie about it."

"Sorry, sorry, of course." He steps away from me, flumps onto the sofa, and throws his head back. For a moment, eyes pointing upward, I think he's about to go at it with God, but when he says "Shit, I'm mucking everything up," it's me he's looking to for confirmation.

I sit down next to him, close enough so that our sides press -- circumstances and my reservations withstanding, he is still shirtless, and it has been a long time. "Your mum died. You're supposed to muck it all up."

Last week, at the antenatal clinic, waiting to get an ultrasound, I picked up a pamphlet called "Skin to Skin" because it sounded like porn. Sadly, it was not. It was about how holding a baby's bare skin to your own relieves the baby's stress -- why, before the umbilical cord is even snipped, they put the baby on the mother's chest. There was a sweet picture of a shirtless dad with a baby asleep on his 6-pack-abs that gave me a start, not because I felt melancholy about not having a dad in the picture, but because the shirtless actor playing the dad -- I recognised him from porn.

I am thinking about this because he pulls me tight into his bare chest, my ear presses to his heart, my breath steadies to its beat. His cool skin absorbs the heat from my cheeks. The longer we stay like this, the safer I feel, and, despite the whole hot Father thing, it's not because of weird daddy issues. Skin to skin isn't just for babies. 

"I don't want you to leave," he says.

"I told you I don't have to, I can stay." 

"No, I mean ever. Leave me. Ever."

I pull back to look at him. He has made proclamations before, usually in the heat of the moment, and I have accepted them with the same lack of gravity I do his cheeky sign offs of "Love you!" Expressions of emotion but not intention. "Aw," I say. It sounds patronizing, but he looks so cute -- eyes all big and lips all pouty, a Disney princess version of his usual self. If a cartoon song bird flits onto his shoulder to chirp me a love song, I will not be surprised.

"Aw? Aw?!?" He is fizzing with outrage. "Fuck you. You think that's cute?"

"I think grief fucks with your head, and declarations made on the day one's mother is buried are to be taken very lightly. I won't be holding you to anything you say today."

"Fine," he sulks. I sink back into his embrace. We are silent for a bit. "But you're not with someone." he says. It's not a question this time.

"I am not with someone," I repeat. 

Although, of course, in a manner of speaking, I am.

\--

His school friends pile in bearing bottles of booze and plates of food. It's bedlam, and it is brilliant. Some friends have brought their kids, and since this house will soon be put on the market to sell, no one tells them to be careful. They're tearing through rooms, spewing crumbs without anyone giving a fuck. Niamh breastfeeds the baby, unencumbered by modesty, boobs out for all to see. I love it. I'm guessing it's the fullest the house has ever been, and the lightest it has ever felt.

Ewan brings in dinner from a curry place they all loved as kids, and where once were sad dead-looking platters, there is a rainbow of curries. The rice is the colour of a marigold. The orange of Tandoori chicken clashes with the orange of the chicken tikka masala. A few weeks ago, when I was still in the throes of morning sickness, just about every single smell made me gag. I'm past that now, and I'm grateful, because this dinner table smells how life is supposed to. 

As they arrive, I make a loud point of pretending to have to gotten the time wrong; my explanation for why I'm earlier than everyone else. I do this on his account, to keep up pretences. His hands undermine my efforts. They are always on me. An arm flung across my shoulder, a palm on the small of my back; fiddly fingers comb through my hair, grasp my wrist. They're not priestly touches, they're not lascivious either; they're possessive touches, the equivalent of a cat rubbing its gums along the edge of the sofa to say: "mine." I'm not entirely sure who they are for.

I'm well aware of grief's tricky head-trippy ways. Recklessness is among its favourite pastimes. I know this PDA doesn't mean anything. But even though I'm apprehensive, I let myself lean into it. This is the first time we've been open in front of people we know, and will probably be the last. I appreciate the novelty, and allow myself the joy.

And maybe we haven't always been as sneaky as we thought. I am sitting on a crowded sofa, chatting with Niamh, when he squeezes on the other side of me, and drapes his arm across my legs, then twiddles with the hem of my dress. My eye catches Ewan staring from across the room. He looks not the least bit shocked. I give him a tight smile, and his eyebrows arch, though not in a shrewd or unkind way, more as if to say "yup."

Tamsin and I circle the dining room table. She is making a plate of food for Niamh. I am making one for him. "Don't skip the biryani," Tamsin says. "It's sublime."

"Too many spring onions, he doesn't like them," I say. It's about as boring a sentence as one can utter, but Tamsin stops dead in her tracks, and swirls round to face me. I smash into her. "Jesus!" I say. A samosa frisbees off my plate. 

She doesn't apologise. "He doesn't like spring onion."

"Right."

"And you know that because?"

"We're old friends?"

She stares for a minute, sizing me up. "I heard he's been going through some stuff. That have to do with you?"

"Well, his mother just died if that's what you mean."

"No. Career stuff, I mean." We're heading for the living room, plates in hand. She turns back and whispers. "Rumour is that his boss is a real dick."

When his hands aren't on me, his eyes are. Too many times they find their way to my chest, and I'm certain he is clocking the change. Niamh goes to get coffee, hands off the baby to me. She fusses for a bit; I move her to my shoulder, allow my cheek to graze her temple. She grabs a fistful of my curls, then settles; I look up to see he is watching me with quiet eyes.

Everyone leaves. I tidy the front room, he does the dishes, I finish first. I tell myself I'm just going to lie down on the sofa, but I pass out almost immediately. No one tells you how exhausting growing a human inside you is. I'm joking. Everyone tells you. Claire moaned about it both times nonstop. Twins that first time, so fair enough.

I don't know how much later, I open my eyes to darkness and a blanket being laid over me. "You want to go upstairs" he whispers. "Might be more comfortable to sleep in a bed."

"Too tired," I groan. I scrunch over to make room for him to lie down beside me, reach blindly to pull him toward me. He stays where he is. I close my eyes, start to drift.

"So, how far along are you?" he asks. "14, 15 weeks?" 

When I open my mouth, nothing comes out. Words, usually my most trustworthy companions, have deserted me. I imagine sentences shattering, and words snapping in half, as -- each letter for herself! -- they flee the scene of impending disaster. Cowards. 

"Look," he sighs, "I'm happy for you, but just don't torture me, please. Who's the father?" He readies himself for the answer, crosses his arms over his body, a knight donning a chest-piece to protect his heart.

"He doesn't really....exist." 

He does one of those head shaky moves he does when he thinks he hasn't heard right. "I don't understand," he says.  
\----

He skims his thumb over what used to be familiar terrain, feeling for himself that what once was flat is now bulbous; concave has gone curvy. "You feel so warm," he murmurs, words that don't, I believe, correspond with whatever thoughts are exploding in his head. I flatten my palm over the top of his hand to hold it in place, draw his fingers apart until they stretch over the hard swell of my abdomen. 

"Wow," he says. Yeah, we've both got tears. "Wow."

I feel something a bit like a twitch, light like the skim of a moth's wings. At first I think he's tickling me. He has chosen an odd moment to get cute. Except his hand hasn't moved. I realise it's coming from inside, beneath the arch of his palm. "Oh!" I gasp. 

"You alright?"

"I felt something."

"Yeah? Where?" 

"Here." I adjust his hand. It was only the slightest movement, but I'm sure it happened. It felt like a flutter, or Champagne bubbles. "Oh, you know, it's probably just the curry --." Oh God, that probably is what it is. Now I'm embarrassed.

"Quickening," he says.

"What?"

"Quickening," he repeats. “It's the first flit of foetal movement the mother feels. Aristotle believed it was the moment of ensoulment."

"Oh," I say, because this is maybe getting religious, and I'm not comfortable with that. "Is that what you believe? What you think just happened? Because it really might be gas."

"No," he says as if it's two syllables, as if what I've just suggested is absurd. "The Catholic church did once consider quickening a marker for when life begins. If that's where you just thought I was going with this, I'm sure I don't have to remind you that my views do not correlate with theirs on these matters. Anyway, Aristotle was more about science than religion, and what I love about the concept -- not that it's a solely a concept, it's a real thing, as you just experienced -- is psychological. Quickening describes the mother's experience of her baby's first movement. It's not the first movement the foetus makes, only the first time she feels it. It's an important distinction, and a lovely reminder. A mother's attention brings a child to life. I love that. Attention is love, at least a kind of love, in my mind."

I'm quiet for a bit. "Sorry," he says. "Didn't mean to give a sermon. Fuck, did I just sound like some arrogant man who thinks he can tell a woman about her pregnancy? I--."

"No," I cut him off. " I wasn't thinking that at all." I'm not. I'm thinking about his hand, and how whoever inside me had their first walkabout under its gentle protection, and that can't be a coincidence. Or maybe, as he says, they've been zipping about for a while now, and, because of his touch, I felt it, which definitely wouldn't be a coincidence. He makes me feel things.

"Aristotle also thought that if the mother felt the first quickening at around 40 days, she would give birth to a boy; after 80 days, a girl." 

"Boys get their souls first? That's why they're superior?"

"Perhaps it's that girls souls take longer to develop because they're more complicated and sophisticated?"

"I like that interpretation better." I take a stab at the math. "Wait, so I'm having a girl?"

"According to some thinking in 350BC, you are. Bear in mind, Aristotle's methodology was pretty crude, so you might want to defer to more modern methods of discovery. I certainly would."

"I won't cancel my 20 week scan then," I say. 

"Probably best."

I loosen my hold on his hand, he keeps it where it is.


	8. Dublin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Okay, so, before we begin we have some housekeeping to attend to. First and foremost, both parties need to agree that any previous arrangements made between them are now, and from this point forward until forever and after, be they up in heaven or down with the worms, null and void."

He knows a strange amount about pregnancy. It turns out he has been giving counsel to mums-to-be at the church for years. He has accompanied pregnant teenagers to birthing classes, has attended his share of births even. "Not inside the delivery room, but outside for support," he explains. There are antenatal support groups at the church, toddler groups on Tuesdays -- he avoids that one, he says. Steers clear of the baby yoga too.

After all this time: so many things I know about him. And so many things I don't.

We go upstairs. "Um, I need to borrow something to sleep in," I tell him. "And if you have a spare toothbrush? And tomorrow I need to buy something to wear. And a pair of shoes."

He is very confused. Honestly, he is having more difficulty comprehending my lack of shoes/luggage than my pregnancy. "You were at the airport when I texted, you'd already checked your bag and put your shoes through security, and then you ran through the airport with no shoes on. You missed your flight, your luggage is in London."

I was there. I don't require a recap. He requires multiple ones. He reaches over me to grab an ankle, checks the soles of my feet. "Jesus. It looks like you walked on a bed of coals."

"Yeah, maybe I need a shower," I say. 

"I can't believe you did that," he gapes, dumbfounded, and it's actually annoying. I think I might even be getting a whiff of pity from him for the position I've put myself in, as if I've laid myself bare before him, admitted this deep dark secret. "Oh, don't get all like that," I say. "Maybe it sounds like some big intense thing to you, but it doesn't feel like that to me." He has got those soupy eyes he had the first time I told him I loved him. "Quit it!" I say.

"Sorry, it's just that you would do that for me... That you're so fucking good. When I'm so --. When I'm --." He frowns. "When I don't deserve it." 

"I'm not 'so fucking good'" He rolls his eyes. I might hit him. "I'm being serious. I'm not good. I'm not saying I'm bad. Just, goodness has nothing to do with it. Whether you deserve it isn't relevant either. You asked me to come, and I was able to, and so I did. I wasn't being kind. I didn't weigh my options. I just went with what I felt." He hangs his head, and I've had enough. "You should try it some time." I regret that sentence as soon as it leaves my lips. It wasn't fair. He showed me how he felt when he texted me this morning. He'd never done that before. The air zips with unpleasant tension, it's like I've just invited a hungry mosquito into the room. I swat it away, soften my voice, and say, "You'd do the same for me. I know you would." 

Maybe I sound deluded. But I am certain of this, even if he isn't. He surprises me when, without a moment's pause, he nods. "Yeah," he agrees. "I would."

\----

He roots around an old cupboard and comes up with some clothes for me. On offer: a selection of women's items with a suspiciously late nineties/early-aughts vibe. Think: velour tracksuit in a shade of aqua that's just shy of neon, and some seriously low-rise denim. I hold a tiny strappy vest to my chest. Vintage Topshop. "I think I had this exact same one. If only I had these boobs then." He smiles. He looks tired. It's very late. "So, these were your mum's?"

"Yes. She wore a velour tracksuit with the word juicy across her bum on her last day alive." He shakes his head like he can't believe he said that. "Sorry, that was a horrendous image. Old girlfriend's." 

"And you've kept them all these years because why? She's the one who got away? You're hoping she'll someday return for this fuzzy midriff-baring jumper?" I'm referring to the next item in the pile which is shaggy and magenta and bears a disturbing resemblance to a lifeless puppet. Perhaps I'll bring her back to London to meet the rude dog puppet. He's a good catch. He won a BAFTA this year.

"Yes, exactly. No. Mum saved them, I suppose. I guess she was hoping we'd someday reconcile. I don't think she liked her particularly, but she saw the priesthood as an affliction. Apparently, she was eager for me to make the exact same mistake my father did."

"What does that mean?"

"That ex-girlfriend now lives in the states, where she is happily married to a woman. 

"Would your mum have liked me?"

"Nope," he says without mulling it over for even a moment.

"Wha-?" I may actually be offended.

"I promise it's a good thing," he laughs. 

I opt for a worn school shirt and shorts, his old PE kit. They're so soft. I join him under the covers to enter his arms. He's so soft.

\--

Though funerals are civilised, grief is not. After my mum died, Boo and I "took to bed," a phrase we loved because it sounded like something consumptive Victorians might do -- minus the bad 90s sitcoms, the pizza, and the weed. He and I spend the next two days doing the same -- minus, well, all of the above. We sleep long into the day, eat leftovers for breakfast at what should be teatime, watch endless hours of Netflix. We don't leave the house. I haven't even gotten new shoes, there hasn't been a need. I launder what I've been wearing, and put it right back on. 

He has taken my pregnancy in surprising stride -- which is not to say he is relaxed about it. He's a bit of a pain. He tut tuts me for drinking black tea -- too much caffeine. When I ask for a glass of wine, he brings me a spritzer, and a weak one at that. He is also very, very sweet. He has more than once told me what a good mum I'm going to be, and has never once questioned my decision to do it as I have. 

He isn't as good at slothfulness as I am. Who is? It's a well-honed skill. By the end of the second day, he is antsy, distracted during the film we watch, distracted by his phone, missing important plot points because he's sending and receiving texts. He's on bereavement leave from the church, and the young priest subbing for him is fine to stay as long as needed. There's no real pressure on him to get back to London. He's focused on selling this house. I can't blame him for wanting to be free of it. He has a giant list he is eager to get through. He says that's what all the texts are about, but at one point he gets a call, and the way he says "Hey" sounds more familiar than he'd be with a contractor or a house painter. He excuses himself, then doesn't return for an hour. When I go downstairs to make tea, he's not there. I think he's secreted himself in his mum's home office.

His anxiousness to get back to life is making me think I should book my return to London, and maybe for tomorrow, bearing in mind I'll have to stop off at a shoe shop first, but when he comes back and sees I'm googling flights, he looks almost angry. "Sorry," I say. "I was getting the impression you were eager to get back to your life." 

"I'm not even sure what that is for me anymore," he says, then doesn't elaborate. He slides next to me, takes the laptop, exes out the page I'm on, and returns us to Netflix. 

He stays put, but I can feel the jitter of his impatience. I think I know a good way for him to channel his energy. Unfortunately, since learning of my pregnancy, he hasn't expressed an interest. All that jagged desperation on the day I arrived, telling me he'd combust if we didn't -- there's none of it now. I've let him know it's an option, but all my moves provoke is cuddliness. It's very frustrating. And I know, I know, I was the one saying we should go slow on that front, but I did that mostly to buy time. Now I'm worried I'll never have sex with him again. 

\--

The next morning we return to our duties as adult humans. Well, he does. He goes out early for a meeting with his mother's solicitor. I wake up in an empty bed in a dark room. The spare room we're occupying was his bedroom growing up. It is as lifeless and drab as I understand his childhood to have been. The room is painted a dark sludgy colour. If there were a twee name for it, it would perhaps be Monk Robe brown or Petrol Station Loo. I can see why his fanciful priest outfits so appealed to him. Plum purple and emerald green, bright white, and all that gold, markers of defiance and exuberance and his refusal to live in the manner he was raised. The longer I am here, the less squeamish his churchiness makes me, the more heroic in my eyes he becomes. 

The bedroom has one tiny window that doesn't merit the heavy drapes that cover it, thick enough to block not just sunlight, but also the world. I think back to that treehouse bed, how dark it was when we pulled the curtain closed, how I found it cosy and safe and maybe even womb-like. What if, for him, it was the opposite? What if it reminded him of this? 

I am sinking into the bleakness of this thought when he returns, all cold cheeks and wind-scruffy hair; and though he hasn't switched on the light, or pulled open the shade, the room brightens. Something has changed, and not just his entire demeanour. There is vibrancy, and I don't think, at least I don't feel, that there's any manic charge to it. This is something different. Did he get good news or something? Maybe he's been promoted to bishop. Yay. How will we celebrate?

He strides toward me with purposeful steps and lively eyes, two takeaway coffees in hand. "Aw," I say, because that's so sweet. The one he hands me has "1/2 caf" scrawled on it. "Aw," I say, because that's disappointing. 

The only reason he is letting me have caffeine, he teases, is because I've got to get up." "Really? But I thought you had stuff to do? Don't feel you have to entertain me, I can work from bed, and anyway I can still get a flight out today." 

He meets my babble with a wild-cat glare, steps backward to the doorway to pick something up. There's a rustling papery sound, and he's back, fists full with shopping bags. "Niamh picked the clothes, so if you hate them, you can take it up with her." His phone rings, and he walks out to take it, but before answering, pops his head back in to add: "You don't have to wear any of them if you don't want. I personally would still like to see you in the velour tracksuit with the writing on the ass." He gives me a look as indecorous as the tracksuit in question, then motions for me to get a move on. 

Oh. 

"Wait, where are we going?" I call.

"I don't have to fucking tell you," he snaps, words echoing because he's already halfway down the hall.

And then, without my permission, my stomach flips as my mind expands so it can open the door to a hope I've never once allowed myself to have. I'm not letting it in. No way, not yet. Just opening the door -- and only a crack, because I'm getting the sense -- maybe, maybe -- that something good is going to happen. 

(Maybe.)

\--

The clothes are from an upscale maternity shop like the ones near the pub that both tempt and repel me: overpriced and trendy, with walls plastered in cutely ironic wallpaper and logos featuring abstract birds. There are several days' worth of outfits: tops, a cashmere jumper, a jumpsuit, a denim skirt with one of those elasticated waist bands it's hard to imagine ever being large enough to fit into, jeans that are a brand I find obnoxiously pricey, but still covet. There's a very low cut dress, and also some very cute maternity knickers and bras with removable flaps for nursing that bear a slight resemblance to fetish gear. Or maybe that's just me.

The other bag is from a shoe shop. Inside is one very large box. I take it out, see the brand-name on the lid, make a noise I didn't intend to: part gasp, part laugh, part ugly snort. I open the box, shove the tissue paper out of the way.

Reader, they're Doc Martens. Combat boots.

\----

We haven't stayed in a hotel-hotel since Edinburgh. This one is just as majestic -- very different vibe, though. Whereas the Edinburgh hotel was elegant and understated, this hotel is sumptuous and ornate. Where there were shades of taupe, there are regal purples and lush teals. Where there were simple lines, there are curlicues. The bathtub is claw-footed. The coffee table is claw-footed. The curtains are heavy textured silk. The headboard is covered in brocade. The bathrobes aren't velvet, but they feel like they are. The armchairs in front of the window resemble thrones. It really is too bad "The Crown" is over. This would be the place to watch it.

Everything is tactile and luxe. He is tactile and luxe. 

I'm getting the feeling that maybe this is our Prague. The last hurrah of which he was cheated. So I don't imagine he's going to hold out on me much longer. Except we've barely been in the room 5 minutes before he informs me we have to get ready to go. We have dinner reservations. I can shower first, he says, with not even a hint of wanting to join me. When I get out and he gets in, I see, laid out on the bed, the dress he bought me. On a page of hotel notepaper, he has scrawled: "Wear this." Not even a "please." I know what it means when he's bossy like that. That dress is over my head and hugging my body before he has even stepped in the shower.

The combat boots might not be the best complement for the dress's slinkiness, but I don't give a fuck. I love them, and so do my battered, blistered feet. He doesn't seem to mind either. "Fuck," he says when he sees me, then whisks me out the door, muttering "We have to leave before we can't." 

It's hard to explain how it feels to be away with him again -- like the world is back on its axis, like something has been righted, like we are home. I know technically we're not away, we're in his hometown, but that too feels significant. We are used to holidays in purposely far-flung locations where we can openly hide. After dinner, we hold hands and walk around the city, and just like the night of his mother's funeral, with all of his friends, he doesn't hide his affection. He shows me where he went to school and where he and his friends used to get high; where his favourite pub used to be. Now it's a Starbucks. We stand in front of the church where Niamh and Tamsin christened their daughters. It's where his family went too. It's dark out, but there's a blur of yellowy light from inside the church. I have a sinking feeling he's got something planned for us inside, like he needs to show me something important; how all those years ago, the night of the confessional, he felt the need to show me his plum robe, perhaps hoping that if telling me how much he needed the church wouldn't get me to back off, showing me would.

He lets go of my hand, and I'm getting ready to follow him in, the door to hope closing before I'd gotten to pull it open. Oh god, what if he wants me to meet his old priest? Or this is where he wants to share the good news about his bishop promotion. Maybe he has skipped right over bishop, and he's going to be pope. Oh my god, pope. That, at least, would be insanely hot.

Except the only move he makes is toward me. His hands find my hips, and he turns me to face him. We are inches apart. His fingers travel up my sides. Slowly and admiringly he traces the outline of my expanding abdomen. Up and up, until hands hold my head. We're so close, I could bite him. This is so maddeningly slow, I think I just might. No sooner do I bare my teeth, then a hand whips behind my neck, grips my hair to yank my head back. The perfect fucking blend of hard enough-to-shock but not-hard-enough-to-injure. The sound I emit? A gasp so lusty, so shameless, it could make the whole church crumble. We may be metres under rubble before he has even managed to kiss me. And then he does. If that gasp didn't take down the church, this kiss surely will. I want it to never stop. I want to live inside this hot and urgent ache forever.

When he pulls away, I swear to god, I tremble. "Ready to go back to the hotel?" he leers, and gives my wrist a tug. 

On the walk home, he points out places of interest -- Seamus Heaney-something. Trinity College-something else, something about a club and Bono. I don't hear any of it. I'm sorry I can't think of a better metaphor to describe what's happening in my head, but this is really how it feels: like there's a door inside swinging open and shut, open and shut, click clack, click clack. 

Earlier in the afternoon, I got an automatic text from the pregnancy app I use. You are 15 weeks today! it proclaimed. Have you popped yet? I didn't think I had, but when I tried on the skirt he bought me, it wasn't as roomy as I thought it would be. Which will make it all the more ironic, or at least significant, if this is Prague. That we're going to have this only to un-have this. That as I'm popping, we are weaning. 

\--

We are back in the room, sitting on the velvet sofa. He is having a whiskey. I am having a tea. I remember how, on Christmas, when he came to the pub, he made me a combination of the two, his grandfather's cure-all. There's something heavy about this silence, pregnant one might even call it. I would like a sip of that whiskey in my tea, but if I ask he will say no, and he will be right. "You okay?" I ask, because all the swagger he had when we were walking around, it's gone.

"Nervous," he answers. 

"About?"

He shakes his head. Not going to tell me. He takes a deep breath, then slaps his thighs with both hands as if summoning himself back to the moment. "Okay, listen. I want to say some stuff to you, but I don't want you to tell me it's just my grief talking, because I promise you it isn't. I gave you two days to show you, spared you the grief sex, even though I know that's not what it would have been. I took your point. I know where you were coming from. It comes up often in counselling sessions when one partner is mourning. But it's different in my case. I have been grieving for my mother since long before she died, or you and I met. As long as I can remember, really. True, she is really gone now, and this is a different sort of loss, but she has always been gone. One could say, in terms of her children, she was never really here." He hears me gulp. "Shit! Sorry. I don't want you to cry. This is old stuff, I'm not upset about it now, I mention it only to explain to you that what I'm going to say is real, and not a manifestation of anything else. Okay? My pain is not what I want to talk about. Well, in some way, it is, but not that age-old pain, the pain I've put us both through. Gosh, I'm making this sound fun, aren't I?"

He takes a big swig. "What?" he says. He can see I'm thinking about something.

"I thought you didn't want to have sex with me because I'm pregnant."

This animates him. "What? No! Why? You're more fucking ravishing than ever. Are you fucking kidding me?" His eyes fall to my chest, which is on display in this dress. I suspect Niamh didn't choose this one, he did. This isn't like before when he was staring at them to look for clues. Now, he is boldly and unabashedly admiring. He smiles, still looking, and then, with what appears to be struggle, returns his eyes to mine. "Right. Sorry. First of all, I was taking my cues from you. All your grief/sex bullshit. But we already covered that. As for your pregnancy, I will confess, at first it gave me pause, by which I mean maybe a millisecond's pause. Obviously, it changes things. It's a different equation now. You'll be so brilliant on your own. I can't say I'm confident you're going to let me in."

I know it seems obvious where this is going, but I'm still too scared to think it. 

He continues. "If anything, the pregnancy made me up my game, but that's a good thing. It's been almost a decade as is. That said, you're going to have to forgive me if I'm not prepared." He is looking at my finger. 

"Wait, what the fuck is happening?" I ask, surprised to hear words out loud, or that I have the power of speech at all.

"Acting on how I feel," he says, then claps his hands like he's a coach in a movie about a scrappy team of misfits who are going to win the championship because he says they can. "Okay, so, before we begin we have some housekeeping to attend to. First and foremost, both parties need to agree that any previous arrangements made between them are now, and from this point forward until forever and after, be they up in heaven or down with the worms, null and void."

"Hey! Isn't that for me to decide?" I say. "I'm the one who had the rule."

"Yes, you're right. You should decide. But first, may I state for the record, in the case that my feelings hold any sway, I would prefer if you did not try to find someone else. In fact, I won't be able to bear it if you do."

"I won't be able to bear it either," I say.

"Okay, then. You ready for me to start? Need a minute?"

Actually, I think I do. Because I need to make sure I'm here for this. All the way here. I lean toward him, press my head to his heart, recall that moment the last time we were on a plane, when I knew how much I never wanted to leave him. I feel the softness of his jumper against the hardness of his chest. I hear his heart flutter.

Quickening: to give or restore life to. This, quite possibly, is going to be both. "Okay," I tell him.

"Yeah?" he says. "Got your shit together? Be sure you do, because I'm not going to go easy on you. Understand: there is going to be kneeling." He sees my shock. "Fucking hell, of course there's going to be kneeling. It's only right." He's laughing, all swagger now; swagger and joy and oh my god, now I can't wait. 

"Go," I say. "Go."

\-----

He will sometimes say that I'm smarter than he is, that's why I was ready before he was. But that's not it at all. I had an unfair advantage. My mother gave me a head start. A parent's love won't solve everything. It can't stop a person from making mistakes or guard her from her own cruelty. But one can hope that if a parent is present for their child, loves them to the best of their abilities, the child will learn how to love and how to be loved. The latter may be the more difficult of the two -- for him it was. 

We are lying in bed. The pots of coffee, one caf and one decaf, have just arrived. I ask him how he's feeling. He mulls for a moment, then says: "You know in professional wrestling, when a fighter is pinned down, the referee will ask if he's ready to submit."

"No."

"Right. Well. That's what happens."

"You're saying I finally pinned you down?"

"No. The opposite. I'd pinned myself down, and now I'm free. Stopped fighting what I wanted and what I felt. I gave in, and I don't mean to you. I mean to this." He fans his hand between us. "The love. Can't resist a second fucking longer. I submit." 

It sounds dirty, and I can't help myself from saying so. A second later he has me in a hold as gentle as it is strong, to show me just how much that wasn't what he meant. (Hey, look at that. We can finally wrestle.) 

"Don't feel bad," I say. "You put up a really good fight. I'll vouch for you if the time comes. I'll tell them them how hard you tried. It was just too big, and it was just too strong. You didn't have a choice. You walked away and it ran back."

\---

We stay in Dublin a couple weeks more. When we leave, the house looks nothing like it did when I arrived; bright and empty and white. I picked the shade. No twee name. It's called, simply, "new." We fly to London. I forget to check Lost Property for my bag. It doesn't matter. None of that stuff fits now. I have popped, and then some. Claire offers to send me her hand-me-down designer maternity wear, I tell her I've got what I need, and I think this miffs her a bit, because she sends a couple of dresses anyway. The coin with the Edinburgh Castle on it that he gave me for Christmas that time? We turn it from a necklace into a ring.

Twenty-five weeks later, our daughter is born; a hundred-and-four weeks later, our son. 

He has partnered with the publisher who'd been his parishioner and got him the guidebooks gig. They have an imprint devoted to religion and culture. More guide books, but also cookery books and psalms repackaged into slim volumes of poetry with gorgeous covers. They're thinking of entering the kids market. He can work at home if needed. If I stay late at the pub, he can be with the kids.

It is hard to imagine a time when my house felt big, like there were too many rooms. Now we could do with a couple more. It's summer. We are going on holiday soon, revisiting The Alps actually. The kids are sick of hearing about it, they say, so we're taking them to see it. Last year, we took them to The Highlands. 

Remember that mountain behind the castle? We climbed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this has been such a gift — fun, instructive, freeing and so many things. It has felt like playing! Best of all, it has been a reminder that what makes writing joyful is...readers. They're the whole damn point! Something that is stupidly easy to forget...
> 
> Very grateful for you guys and for this forum. I have loved the comments. Writing these final chapters -- which have taken a long time due to the fact that they are so damn long -- was made even more enjoyable knowing there were some people out there who had hopes for what would be in them. Thank you so, so much!!!!!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Okay, Two](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29320248) by [bringewritepurge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bringewritepurge/pseuds/bringewritepurge), [FormerBunhead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FormerBunhead/pseuds/FormerBunhead)


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